


One in Ten Thousand

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2014, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 92,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“There </i>has<i> been some mistake,” he insists, a little desperately – and </i>fuck it<i>, he decides, getting back up for glasses, filling them with about three fingers of rum each and pushing one over in the direction of his guest. “There are no soul bonds in my family. I’m certain of it.”</i></p><p>
  <i>“And you didn’t even get tested, just in case? There might be one you don’t know about,” Aramis points out.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Look…” Athos sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’ve got a copy of the family tree going back four hundred years, and there’s not a single soul bond on it. Trust me when I say I’m sure.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> [Soulbond](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Soulbond_\(trope\)).
> 
>  **Content notes** : Detailed treatment of depression, anxiety, and a past (emotionally) abusive relationship throughout. Canon levels of alcoholism.
> 
> For Melly, without whom this fic would never have existed – from the initial kicking around of ideas for interesting tropes to tackle to the constant stream of inspiration, feedback, support and hand-holding, every step of the way. It wouldn’t be half of what it is without you; and without you I may never have realised I could write a novel-length fic without screaming and hiding under a blanket until the idea went away, something for which I don’t really have the words.
> 
> I also owe a debt to [mimesere](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mimesere) and [etoiledemer](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/etoiledemer) for their thoughts on worldbuilding and character respectively; and to my partner for his patience and support in multiple respects, from the crash course in genetics to his tolerance for all the housework left undone while I’m writing this fic, and everything in between.

Athos grimaces, balling his hands into fists and shoving them deeper into the pockets of his winter coat, which he decides is very much not doing its job at the moment. It’s the third day of the cold snap and the first time in a week he’s left his flat, and he inwardly curses himself for being weak-willed enough to agree that tonight would be a great night to meet Porthos and his new boyfriend at some God-awful bar, full of noise and other people and no doubt terrible wine.

_It’ll mean a lot to him_ , he reminds himself, starting to feel a little guilty for being so curmudgeonly. He doesn’t see Porthos nearly enough – doesn’t like him coming to the flat, really, and sometimes getting outside is harder than it should be – and he knows his best friend will appreciate the effort. And while far be it from him to read a mood from a two-line email, Porthos sounded… optimistic.

While Athos has made a point of not believing in The One for quite a few years now, this could be… well. _Good_ for him, at least.

He gets the scrap of paper out of his pocket again to double-check the name, even though he’s fairly certain it’s The Anchor; and he is indeed standing outside the right place, which he decides doesn’t look as bad as he feared, and seems to be more of a pub than a bar. There’s no music blaring through the half-open door, at least, and certainly no sign it’s showing sports, for which he’s thankful. He’s never quite forgiven Porthos for the time he made him go to an ex’s football game.

He opens the door and steps inside to a blast of warm air, scanning the mostly empty room for any sign of Porthos and taking in as he does so the dark wooden panelling, the fake oil lamps flickering on the walls, the row of local beers on tap.

The fishing net stuck to the wall above the bar, with a couple of plastic crabs caught in its netting.

He can’t help the corner of his mouth curling up in a half-smile, recognising that Porthos has tried to at least pick somewhere he thinks will put him at ease, even if it’s leaning towards the ridiculous.

He can’t see him, anyway; and so he orders a pint of middle-of-the-road bitter and slides himself into a corner booth, checking his phone automatically to see if there are any messages (there aren’t), and is just considering getting out his e-reader when he hears Porthos’ unmistakeable voice calling his name.

Everything happens in slow motion after that.

He stands, looking up towards the door, where Porthos is walking towards him with his arm round the waist of a man who –

Athos just about manages to get a sense of dark hair and eyes, olive skin, and facial hair that’s somewhere between stubble and a beard when he suddenly feels like something’s cracking his head open.

He lets out an involuntary groan of pain, leaning forward and putting one hand out to steady himself against the table as he clutches at his left temple with the other, gritting his teeth. His first thought is it that it must be a migraine, not that he’s ever had one, but he thinks he remembers hearing that migraines aren’t nearly this sudden; and after the first initial burst of pain he realises that it’s stopped _hurting_ , exactly, and instead he’s started to feel almost like part of his _head_ is nauseous, somewhere beneath his hand, as absurd as it sounds.

“You alright?” Porthos asks, his voice thick with concern; and Athos looks up to say something reassuring when he realises it’s not him Porthos is looking at at all – but his boyfriend, who’s clutching his own head as well, in a mirror of Athos’ posture.

As their gazes meet, Athos realises with a slowly-dawning horror that the nausea’s passed too – replaced by something in his head that wasn’t there before. Something that’s not him; and when the look of pure joy that blooms across the boyfriend’s face echoes unmistakeably in Athos’ own head, underneath his hand, his legs nearly give out from under him as suddenly it all starts to make sense.

_No. It’s not possible,_ he insists, feeling abruptly nauseous; and he lets his hand fall away from his head as he stares at the stranger before him with his mouth hanging stupidly open, dimly noticing through the thundering of his own pulse in his ears that the burst of alien joy in his mind dims rapidly, to be replaced by something turbulent-feeling that’s far too complicated to name.

“No. No,” Porthos is saying; and Athos realises he’s let go of the boyfriend and is staring between the two of them in turn like they’ve just betrayed him – _and he’s not so wrong_ , the part of Athos’ brain that’s still just about functioning notes detachedly. “No, you’re shitting me. You’ve _got_ to be – _you_ told me you were negative!” His voice rises to a shout as he jabs a finger at Athos, suddenly furious.

Porthos has never shouted at him before, not in all the years they’ve known each other; and it is that which is, finally, too much to bear.

Athos mechanically gathers up his coat and pushes through the gap between them without another word, walking out of the bar and into the chill night as he pulls his coat back on, the only thought in his mind the importance of getting away from them both, from this nightmare.

Perhaps he can walk it off, he thinks absurdly. Perhaps if he just walks away and doesn’t look back then it will never have happened, and he can live out the rest of his life in peace.

Of course, he hasn’t got more than a few metres away before he hears the swing of the door behind him and a man’s voice – not Porthos, it must be the boyfriend – shouting, “Hey! Wait!”

Athos ignores him, and quickens his pace; but the man’s running after him, trainers pounding hard against the paving slabs, and there’s no fucking way he’s going to run too so he just braces himself for the moment the man’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder, and forces himself to stop, and turn around.

He’s half-expecting to get shouted at by him too; but the man just looks at him for a moment, his dark eyes bright with concern, before he squeezes Athos’ shoulder and asks softly, “Why did you walk out?”

_Because this is some kind of sick cosmic joke,_ Athos’ brain helpfully supplies.

He doesn’t reply.

“You felt it too, didn’t you? The bond,” the man insists; and even though it’s not a question Athos still has to check to make sure, and searches for the awareness of the other man he felt somewhere behind his left temple, to see if it’s still there.

Now that he’s looking it’s plain to see, like coloured ink spreading into water; and it’s only then he realises with a sickening jolt that the reason he’d forgotten it as he walked out was because he’d mistaken the other man’s confusion and near-panic for his own.

_No_ , he thinks desperately. He can’t do this. There’s simply no way.

Athos shrugs off the hand on his shoulder, and draws himself up through his spine as he schools his face into the emotionless mask he perfected during twelve years of boarding school. “There must have been some mistake,” he informs the stranger before him, perfectly civil. “I’m going home. I hope you enjoy your evening.”

His point made, he starts to turn away; only to stop dead when his head explodes again with something hot and sharp that he thinks for a split second is more pain, before he identifies it as _anger_.

“There! You felt that, didn’t you?!” the man spits at him; and Athos realises with a growing sense of horror that the man’s _shaking_ , though he doesn’t know whether it’s from anger or cold or both. “Don’t lie to me!” He raises his gloved hands – but drops them again when Athos takes an involuntary step back, as if he realises how it must look, jamming them back in his pockets.

“Look,” he tries again, calmer this time, “you couldn’t leave, even if you wanted to.” He sighs as Athos stares at him blankly, and runs a hand through his unruly hair. “We have to stay together until the bond settles, remember? Or it’ll make us both ill.”

Athos might well have heard that once, he has no idea any more. He’s finding it increasingly hard to think at all.

“So we can go back to the bar and talk about this, or you can come to mine – but I’ve got housemates and I don’t know who’s in, so it might be a bit awkward…”

“I live alone,” Athos interrupts, just relieved to be asked a question he can actually answer; and he turns abruptly on his heel and strides off in the direction of his flat without looking back, deciding mutinously that even if he’s forced to go along with whatever ridiculousness this is, he’s certainly not going to encourage it.

After a moment he hears the other man start to follow him, pushing to catch him up until they’re walking two abreast along the pavement; and Athos tries very hard not to think about what’s happening, and what any of it might mean.

He’ll get home, he’ll make a cup of tea and lace it with half a bottle of rum, and then they’ll look at this rationally, he decides.

It must be a mistake. Something temporary, perhaps, or they’ve managed to ingest some drug that mimics the effects. After all, de la Fères don’t have _soul bonds_ , he’s known that all his life.

And that’s not even starting on the fact that this is a _man_ , which is another issue entirely.

Turning onto his street, and the sight of his front door at last, is a blessed relief. He knows that everything will feel better once he’s inside, and seem clearer, it always does. He and this stranger will sit down together and discuss this like reasonable adults, and work out what’s actually going on.

Despite the exceptional circumstances, he still can’t help cringing a little as he unlocks his front door and clicks the hall light on, the weird way his flat has of always managing to look simultaneously spartan and unkempt never failing to embarrass him in front of visitors; but the other man doesn’t seem to care, looking around in open admiration and even giving a low whistle as he kicks off his trainers. “Nice. And it’s just you?”

“Just me,” Athos confirms as he takes off his coat and exchanges it for his favourite cardigan, taking refuge in the comfort of social norms for just a few moments. He supposes the floor’s nice or something, though it’s not like he’s ever really given it much thought. “Kitchen’s through here. I’ll put the kettle on.”

He’s just filling the kettle at the kitchen sink when he hears the man come up behind him, feels a hand press against the small of his back – and freezes, unable to help the spike of panic that lances through him like electricity.

“Sorry,” the man blurts out immediately, snatching his hand away – and Athos feels suddenly unbalanced by the wave of foreign sadness that floods through his mind. “I thought…”

The man doesn’t finish.

Athos’ knuckles turn white where he grips the rim of the sink with his other hand.

He carries on filling the kettle.

Eventually the man sits himself down at Athos’ kitchen table, letting Athos make him a cup of tea ( _two sugars_ , Athos thinks, unable to block out the sound of his mother’s voice in his head); and Athos sits cautiously down opposite him, his hands curling automatically around his mug as he allows himself to take a proper look at the stranger who’s in his home.

The man’s late twenties, he thinks, and must be wearing about four layers of clothing, his gloves still on. He’s clearly good-looking; but under the force of the halogen lights, he mostly just looks tired.

His first question is not one Athos is expecting.

“Do you even know my name?”

_Begins with A_ is all Athos can manage; though he’s sure Porthos did tell him when he agreed to meet him. It must have slipped his mind, like so many things.

He turns his hands palm-up, apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“It’s Aramis,” his stranger replies, an expression on his face which Athos could only describe as bitterly amused; and it’s in that moment it hits him that Aramis must think this is _real_ – of course he does – and what a fucking disappointment Athos must be.

The sooner they get this sorted out the better, then, for both of them.

“I’m Athos,” he replies stiffly; and because there’s no excuse for not being polite, “I… apologise, for not asking before now. The events of this evening have rather taken me by surprise.”

“You don’t say,” Aramis murmurs, looking at Athos with something that feels like compassion – and Athos nearly jumps when he realises he can _actually_ feel it, inside his mind, and takes an automatic sip of tea to hide his confusion, burning his tongue.

Alright, he’s definitely going to need something stronger if he’s going to get through this.

“I’m not what you were expecting, then?” Aramis continues, as Athos gets up from his chair and goes over to open the spirits cupboard, clinking glass bottles carelessly together.

“What would I be expecting?” Athos calls absent-mindedly back over his shoulder, before locating the rum – finally – and turning back towards the table again, letting the door swing shut.

As he sits back down he realises Aramis is staring at him, like he’s just figured something out.

Slowly, as if he’s testing the thought, he says, “Of course. You didn’t know you were positive.”

Athos unscrews the bottle cap and pours a _very_ large slug of rum into his tea.

“There _has_ been some mistake,” he insists, a little desperately – and _fuck it,_ he decides, getting back up for glasses, filling them with about three fingers of rum each and pushing one over in the direction of his guest. “There are no soul bonds in my family. I’m certain of it.”

“And you didn’t even get tested, just in case? There might be one you don’t know about,” Aramis points out.

“Look…” Athos sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’ve got a copy of the family tree going back four hundred years, and there’s not a single soul bond on it. Trust me when I say I’m sure.”

The way Aramis’ eyes widen is almost comical; but he doesn’t make a crack about posh families, as Athos had been half-expecting. Instead, he just reaches for the glass of rum Athos has poured him and takes a drink, looking consideringly at him all the while.

When he puts the glass down, he says, “Give me your hand.”

“What?” Athos barks, unconsciously tightening his grip on his own glass.

“Give me your hand,” Aramis repeats, already taking off his gloves; and there’s a strange smile on his face which suddenly makes him look years younger, though there are laughter lines at the corners of his eyes.

As they reach for each other across the table, the thought’s in the back of Athos’ mind that this will be the first time their bare skin will have touched, he thinks he remembers seeing something about this being important on TV once – and as Aramis’ fingers close around his own there's a sudden explosion of warmth where they’re touching, flooding through his body, overwhelming him with a tingling sort of happiness that is _not_ of his own making, that’s like the way he used to feel when he looked at Anne –

He rips his hand from Aramis’ grasp.

“You see?” Aramis says, “there’s no mistake,” his joy still burning undeniable behind Athos’ left temple, where it doesn’t belong – and all he wants to do is reach into his mind somehow and cut it out, tear it out if he has to, anything to get this stranger _out of his head._

He doesn’t even have to say anything for Aramis’ expression to crumple as if he’s been struck.

Athos gets up on shaky legs, grabs the half-full bottle of rum from the table and almost runs into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and sinking to the floor in the darkness. He feels behind himself for the corner space between the door and the wardrobe, wedging himself in there as he takes his first drink straight from the bottle, then another, and then another, until the twin currents of pain churning together inside his mind start to dull; and then he drinks some more, until he can’t feel Aramis at all.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s still dark when Athos wakes with a jolt – and he’s had the sense to get on the bed at some point, at least, finds himself lying on top of the covers still fully dressed.

His head swims as he sits up, and he realises that he’s still solidly drunk, though not incapacitated.

It’s then that he remembers the events of the night before.

It’s quiet in his mind, at least, nothing there that doesn’t belong, and for a moment he thinks Aramis has left – but as he opens his bedroom door to go in search of a glass of water he finds him asleep on the sofa, stretched out under Athos’ woollen blanket, a discarded pair of jeans and what looks like it must be two or three jumpers in a pile on the floor.

 _He gets cold then,_ Athos thinks absurdly, and then suddenly feels very much like crying for a moment; and he has to sink into the armchair and rest his head on his knees for a little while, hugging his ribcage until he can force himself to calm.

He’s not sure if he can wake Aramis up by thinking too loudly, but he definitely doesn’t want to risk it. He’d prefer Aramis sleeps as long as possible, so that Athos can at least be alone in his own head.

And that’s the worst part, isn’t it?

Living with a stranger, on its own, he could handle. He wouldn’t exactly welcome it, but he could deal with it; he’s had the de la Fère upbringing plus eleven years of boarding school and three years at Oxford to perfect the art of tolerating anybody he has to.

Not having his _head_ to himself, though – someone else’s emotions leaking in, knowing that they can read his in turn – he feels nothing less than _violated_.

Athos bites his lip.

He’s not going to wake Aramis up.

Instead he goes to the toilet and makes himself drink a glass of water before picking up his laptop from the coffee table and taking it back into his bedroom, where he has another slug of rum from the bottle before firing up Chrome. He needs to find out what exactly he’s got himself into.

His first hit on Google is an NHS website entitled ‘About your soul bond’, which is done out in soft pinks and reds and illustrated with a photo of a white couple, a blonde woman and dark-haired man smiling sappily at each other, which automatically makes Athos roll his eyes.

He scans down the introductory text, but decides very quickly that it’s all well-meaning fluff; and so he turns to the sidebar menu for something more concrete, deciding to start with the first link, ‘How soul bonds work’.

He reads:

‘ _Soul bonds are psychic bonds between individuals that allow them to experience the other’s emotions directly. While purely platonic soul bonds do exist, the majority are romantic and/or sexual in nature._

_‘The majority of soul bonds occur between two individuals, though there have been recorded cases of soul bonds triggering either between multiple individuals simultaneously, or existing soul bonds expanding to include another individual at a later date.’_

Athos lets out a sigh of relief, the force of it taking him thoroughly by surprise. While he barely knows anything about soul bonds, he’d been assuming they were always a romantic arrangement, and it’s definitely a relief to find out that he’s not unwittingly signed himself up for a relationship here.

As he reads down the page, it dawns on him just how ignorant about this he’s always been. Soul bonds, to him, have always been like fashion, or punk music – he understood what they _were_ , but knew very little _about_ them, and would have been hard-pressed to give any kind of coherent explanation. They were just outside of his range of experience, bearing no relevance to his existence – or so he’d assumed.

Now he learns that they’re a genetic mutation: an extra chromosome, to be precise. Heritable in most cases, occasionally idiopathic (or as he likes to call it, science-speak for ‘we just don’t know’). More and more bond positive people are having their genes sequenced, and scientists think they’ve identified the ‘key’ that makes bonds form, though they can’t yet interpret the data they’ve collected. While bond positivity isn’t physically obvious, there’s a fingerprick test that can be taken during puberty – the one he never bothered getting – that can predict bond positivity through differing blood hormone levels, those individuals having been shown to almost always go on to develop a soul bond.

Evidence of soul bonds is present in human writings and culture as far back as recorded civilisation, from of Plato’s _Symposium_ to the East Asian ‘red string of fate’ to the Jewish _bashert_ , and even cave paintings dating back to the Palaeolithic era of hands with interlinked fingers, which some experts consider may be a symbolic representation of soul bonds.

Which is all very interesting, but not quite what Athos wants to know.

He clicks on the next linked down, entitled ‘The first few days’.

As he reads, Athos quickly realises the person or people responsible for this website have made quite a few assumptions which just don’t apply to him: that the reader was at least expecting to form a soul bond, for one, and that the idea doesn’t fill them with a nameless, sinking dread.

‘ _The bond will initially take up to a week to settle down, during which time you and your new partner may find that your emotions are more volatile than usual. Remember to keep calm and give each other lots of support – after all, you’re in this together! Before long, your link will feel as natural as if you were born with it.’_

Athos closes the tab in disgust.

For the next few hours he keeps reading, trawling through a variety of informational websites and learning about the dangers of _spiralling_ , or reflecting each other’s negative emotions back and forth so that they escalate (something he’s an expert at all by himself, and finds is best tackled by drinking himself unconscious); and on a website called the Association of Platonic Soul Mates, that touching each other’s bare skin is important to keep the bond ‘healthy’, whatever the nature of the relationship between the bonded couple – _calming and reassuring_ , the website claims, though that was hardly his experience last night.

Probably the most useful discovery is that he’ll be able to learn to consciously control the link, once it’s settled down, increasing or reducing the intensity of the emotion he transmits; though this seems to be posited as either a way of getting your soul mate’s attention or as a sexual enhancement, and not as a way of preserving your own sanity.

In fact the more he reads, the more it feels as though the entire internet is involved in some kind of conspiracy to make soul bonding seem like a uniquely desirable form of fairytale intimacy, and not the confusing, vaguely terrifying experience of being thrust into an unexpected mind-meld with a complete stranger and being trapped there, with no way out –

The panic hits him like a punch to the gut, and Athos puts his laptop down on the bed and lies back, dropping his head down off the side of the bed and taking slow, deep breaths, just focusing on nothing but the in and out of his breathing and the persistent, detached thought that someone somewhere must be making a lot of money off this soul bond thing, until he feels the panic subside.

When he starts to come back to himself, bracing his hands against his stomach and shifting his head back onto the mattress, he notices the corner of his mind, behind his left temple, that had been silent is now buzzing with awareness – Aramis is awake, then, and Athos can’t help the wave of guilt and embarrassment that washes over him at the realisation that he must have woken him, though he tries as hard as he can to squash the feelings down, not to feel them at all.

The sooner he gets a hold on himself, the better.

He’s half-afraid Aramis will sense his distress and come barging in, demanding an explanation; but as Athos holds himself taut for long minutes, concentrating on tensing his muscles and keeping himself under control, he does not.

And as Athos relaxes a little once more he starts, for the first time, to be a little curious about exactly how Aramis is feeling.

Athos’ only experience with the link between them so far is the waves of Aramis’ emotion that swept over him last night, that he tried as hard as he could to ignore – but perhaps if he concentrates, actually _looks_ at the bond instead of pretending it’s not there, he can learn something useful. Something that might give him a clue about how to get through this, even.

Feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic, he focuses all his attention on the newly-foreign area of his mind that Aramis’ feelings seem to stem from.

It’s difficult, more so than he expected; and Athos supposes after a few moments of mental strain that he’s never exactly been the best at understanding or dealing with his own emotions, so why should anyone else’s be any different? But then his mind starts to focus, to hone in on the source, until he can once again sense Aramis in his mind, as distinct from himself.

He thinks back to last night – remembers Aramis happy, upset, angry – and this is none of those things. This is… just _neutral,_ he supposes, he can’t make any more sense of it than that; and he wonders for a moment if he really just is this bad at it before he remembers something he read earlier, and whether the vague claim that a bond which was ‘new and confusing’ meant not just confusing to the people involved, but difficult to read and interpret, by definition.

Athos reaches up to press his fingers against his temples as he feels the inevitable hangover start to kick in.

 _God,_ he really needs a coffee.

But to get a coffee he’ll have to go out through the living room, where Aramis is, awake.

 _Don’t be ridiculous_ , Athos tells himself sternly. This is _his flat_ , for God’s sake, and Aramis clearly isn’t planning on going anywhere, he can’t just hide away in his bedroom until it all stops happening.

No, he’s going to go out there and have a coffee, and a shower, and stop being pathetic. And then they’re going to look at this sensibly and figure out what they’re going to do about it, and he’s _not_ going to panic again, he’s going to take things one step at a time, like every therapist he’s ever had has told him to.

He opens his bedroom door.

Aramis is dressed, at least, and has folded Athos’ blanket neatly and laid it across the armrest. “Hey,” he says, looking groggily over from where he’s still curled into one corner of the sofa. “I was going to put coffee on, but I’m afraid I can’t figure out your coffee maker.”

“I’ll make some,” Athos says, closing the door behind him as he steps out into the living room proper. “Good morning, by the way.”

“Good morning,” Aramis replies, with a careful smile. It’s the second smile Athos has seen from him, and it’s a nice smile, he decides, reassuring. It makes him feel just a slight bit better about all of this, that at least they’re in it together, and for once it’s not his problem and his alone.

Not that that’s in any way relevant, of course.

“I’ll make breakfast.”

It seems almost companionable, Athos decides as he pours the beans into the coffee maker, sneaking a glance over to where Aramis is looking through first his fridge and then his cupboards, alternating thoughtful humming noises with the occasional grimace, moving packets and tins out of the way to see what’s behind them. He looks _at home_ here, Athos decides, surprised by the stirrings of envy in his mind – he’d be far too busy worrying about not knowing where everything was or upsetting the other person’s system, but Aramis seems quite happy to just poke through and see what he can discover, and Athos forgets for a moment to fret about how many things are no doubt out of date in there and the jars of instant pasta sauce and the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s got about five pots of oregano, and just watch him for a moment.

It’s only when Aramis turns back towards him with a box of eggs and a handful of spice pots and another tentative smile that Athos realises he’s staring.

 _Right_ , he thinks, flustered. Coffee.

And if he imagines the beacon of Aramis’ thoughts in his mind shines a little brighter after that – well. Best not to overthink things, hasn’t he already decided that?

Aramis makes some kind of fancy eggs on toast, and while Athos isn’t normally a breakfast person, that in combination with the coffee does wonders to settle his nerves; and he’s feeling almost relaxed when Aramis says, a little awkwardly, “I’ll need to go back to mine in a bit. Pick up some things.”

“Of course,” Athos replies once he’s chewed and swallowed. “I don’t need to go out, so. It’s not an inconvenience.”

“I mean,” Aramis says slowly, “you need to come with me. Because of the bond.”

“Oh. Right.” Athos takes another sip of his coffee, to hide his confusion. “What – would happen if I didn’t? Just out of interest.”

“It varies. For most people, debilitating migraines. I’m afraid it’s not really an option.”

Aramis looks newly nervous, as if he’s expecting Athos to blame him for their biology – and Athos clamps down on the fresh surge of guilt as he realises that’s probably exactly the impression he gave the night before, that all of this was Aramis’ fault somehow, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There’s no excuse for being rude, and he resolves to make it up to him as much as possible, by swallowing his own discomfort and being as helpful as he can, until they figure out how to sort this out so that they can get on with their own lives.

“Do you mind if I take a shower first?”

“Sure, whenever you’re ready. It’s about a thirty-minute walk from here, unless you drive?”

Athos shakes his head, not pointing out that he would rarely be sober enough to do so anyway. “I can help you carry some things.”

“Brilliant, thank you.” Aramis flashes him a swift grin, which Athos isn’t really sure he deserves – carrying a bag or two is hardly that great a service. “No rush, though. I still need to call my boss and tell her what’s happened.”

 _Work,_ Athos thinks, _of course_ – most people work, don’t they. Work is a good, safe topic, and he determines to cling to it like a drowning man to a rock. “Oh, what do you do?”

“I’m a nurse. Paediatric. You?”

“A – consultant. Project management.”

Which isn’t technically a lie, though it’s been a few weeks since he last did anything that could actually be called work.

“Oh.” Aramis’ eyebrows raise politely in that way people have that means _I have no idea what that means, but it sounds impressive._ “Fun?”

“Not really. You?”

“More… satisfying,” Aramis replies thoughtfully. “Sometimes a joy. Sometimes heartbreaking. Always fulfilling.”

Athos is hit by a sudden vision of Aramis tending to sick children, and in the next moment manages to feel extremely inadequate by comparison; and the way Aramis frowns at him in confusion, as if he can sort of tell but is trying to understand what on earth it means, is the last straw.

He gets abruptly to his feet, mumbling, “Excuse me,” as he walks into the bathroom, and it’s only when he locks the door behind him that the feeling of being horribly exposed dulls just a little in his breast.

He’s only realising just how much he _feels_ now that he has someone to hide it from.

It’s begun to occur to him that perhaps the reason for this collective social delusion that soul bonds are some kind of a gift to humanity is less of a true belief and more of a method of coping. That the only way to live with something like this is to convince yourself that you’re happy, that it’s what you want, that it’s meant to be.

Unfortunately for him, Athos’ brain has less of a tendency towards self-deception and more of a tendency towards being his own worst enemy.

If he continues to be this much of a wreck, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get through this.


	3. Chapter 3

The warm water of the shower helps a little to clear Athos’ thoughts; and by the time he’s dried and dressed again, leaving the house seems not only achievable but like it might be a good thing for once, and give them both something to do while he figures out how he’s going to cope with the situation until they can get it sorted out.

He conveniently ignores the question of how exactly they _would_ get it sorted out, seeing as all his internet research turned up exactly zero hits on accidental soul bonds, temporary soul bonds or indeed any other ways to extricate oneself from such a situation, barring a special Government service for separating victims of abuse from their soul mates.

Aramis is blessedly mostly silent on the walk over to his house, seemingly content to just huddle down into the inadequate-looking jacket he’s wearing that makes Athos wonder if he’s got a spare winter coat anywhere in the flat. The house, when they reach it, is thankfully empty – and Athos doesn’t know what he was expecting but he looks around at the sheer amount of stuff in the living room, piled high in every corner, and decides with a force that surprises him that there’s no question of expecting Aramis to stay here.

“It’s my friends’ house, I’m just renting the room,” Aramis explains, Athos perching awkwardly on the end of the single bed as he watches Aramis pick up discarded clothing items seemingly at random from a chair and the floor and the overflowing chest of drawers, throwing them carelessly into a holdall. “Since my last relationship ended, before Porthos, that is. It was only ever meant to be temporary. I know Constance will be glad to have her projects room back, it’s been driving her crazy and they’ve just got no storage here at all.”

Athos frowns suddenly, his mind stuck on one particular point. “You were living with someone? When you knew…”

He trails off, waving his hand vaguely as if to indicate _this whole soul bond situation_ – as it occurs to him for the first time that Aramis started a relationship with Porthos, knowing that Porthos wasn’t his soul mate and that a bond could trigger at any moment, with anyone.

“Oh, I always told them I was positive,” Aramis replies, plopping down on the bed beside Athos as he leans forward to get socks and underwear out of a filing cabinet that appears to be serving as a bedside table. “And that there was a chance my bond would trigger. But I wasn’t getting any younger –” he looks up at Athos, a pair of boxers in one hand, and winks – “and I was starting to think you might never show.”

“Bring everything you need,” Athos replies, changing the subject before he can start thinking about how it might have worked out better for Aramis if he had never showed. “Everything you think we can carry, anyway. I’m – assuming you’ll be staying.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Aramis replies, with a grin. “In that case, just let me pack the gimp suit.”

“You _are_ joking,” Athos says, before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, I am,” Aramis concedes, rocking into Athos and gently bumping their shoulders together, before reaching down to grab a handful of sock balls. “Lucky for you, it’s not my thing.”

Athos decides he’s not going to think _any_ more about that, or why it might be to do with him anyway.

“Let me help,” he says instead, reaching for a shopping bag and holding it open for Aramis to drop the rest of the socks into, before dumping a pile of light blue hospital scrubs on top.

He watches as Aramis goes over to the chest of drawers and picks a few books off the top of the stack there, turning to throw them neatly into Athos’ bag – a few children’s novels, and one that looks suspiciously like a self-help book.

Athos leans forward to get a better look, craning his neck to read the title: ‘ _From Strangers to Soul Mates: How to make the most of your soul bond_ ’. The cover appears to feature the same couple as the NHS website he was on earlier, though this time the man’s leaning over the woman and caressing her face, in a manner that to Athos seems simultaneously both suggestive and clinical.

He groans in surprise and pain as another book hits him in the head.

“Shit! I’m so sorry.” Aramis is there immediately, crouching down in front of Athos, his expression contrite. “I should have been looking. Are you alright?”

He reaches up, as if he’s going to brush Athos’ hair away from his forehead where the book hit him; and Athos flinches away before he even realises he’s doing it, thinking immediately of the awful spike of panic he felt last time Aramis’ bare skin touched his.

“I’m fine,” Athos says stiffly, feeling like the worst person on the planet for a moment. “It didn’t hurt that much.”

Aramis lets his hand drop.

“Okay,” he replies through gritted teeth, turning away again without another glance, his sudden sadness and anger aching behind Athos’ left temple.

 _God_ , it’s not even mid-afternoon and he’s desperate for a fucking drink already.

Aramis finishes packing in silence after that; and they’ve walked almost all the way home when buoyed by the weak sunlight that’s started to filter through the retreating clouds, Athos finally plucks up the courage to say, “I’d like to – test some things, if I may.”

Aramis tilts his head, regarding him curiously. “Sure. What do you mean?”

“What exactly we can sense from each other, through the link. So if I have a certain thought, or emotion, I’d like to know how you experience it.”

“Ah. You really don’t know much about soul bonds, do you?”

“Only what I read on the internet this morning,” Athos admits, wondering if he should be feeling apologetic for his ignorance on a matter that had simply never been on his radar.

“Okay, well maybe I can help,” Aramis replies, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. “So we can feel each other’s emotions, but from what I’ve heard – and what I’ve experienced so far – it’s not very exact. Like, I know if you’re happy or sad, but I can’t pinpoint anything. It’s more of a general sense. When the bond settles down it should get a bit easier, but I’ll only ever know _what_ you’re feeling, and not why.”

 _Well, thank God for that,_ Athos thinks vehemently.

“I read that our emotions will be more volatile than usual until the bond settles down, as well,” he offers, when it becomes clear it’s his turn to say something.

“Oh yeah – that’s mostly a case of getting used to the emotional feedback loop, I think,” Aramis nods. “It’s disorienting for me, too. I mean – I know this whole thing’s been a shock for you and all, but you did have me worried once or twice.”

He smiles, and Athos has the distinct feeling that Aramis thinks they’re sharing a joke he doesn’t get.

Fortunately they’re just turning onto his street, close enough to home that it makes sense for him to say, “Another coffee when we get in?”

Once they’re inside Athos makes the two coffees (milk and two sugars for Aramis, a splash of whisky for him) and takes them through to the living room, where Aramis is sprawled over one half of the sofa, leaning back against the cushions – _perfectly at ease_ , Athos thinks, as though he’s already decided he belongs here.

He would have expected to find it annoying to have someone else taking over his personal space like this, but he finds he doesn’t really mind. It’s certainly better for Aramis, anyway, as it looks as though he’s going to be staying here for a while at least.

“Right, so what would you like me to do?” Aramis asks, as Athos sits down in his usual armchair, and Aramis shifts himself to the near side of the sofa and leans his elbows on the armrest, interested.

“Okay.” Athos takes a moment to gather his thoughts. He isn’t completely sure how he envisages this working, but he does know that he doesn’t want to be the one to go first. “Think something at me, and I’ll tell you how I experience it. Or – no, wait. Don’t think it _at_ me, just think about it.”

“Okay. Anything, or…?”

“Start with something neutral.”

“Alright. Doing it.”

Aramis closes his eyes; and at first Athos doesn’t really notice anything, though he realises that if he concentrates on the area behind his left temple he can just about make out the stream of Aramis’ feelings where they enter his mind, flow slowly into his own.

That’s what he really doesn’t like, the idea that he might mistake another for himself; but if he concentrates then he can tell instinctively whose feelings are whose, though he can’t quite put his finger on how he knows.

Aramis’ feelings are… happy, the way Athos feels himself when he’s most content; and he allows himself just a small amount of wistfulness, knowing that Aramis will be too busy concentrating on his own thoughts to notice.

“That was happy,” Athos says, once he’s convinced that he’s observed all he can. “Try something more neutral.”

Aramis blinks. “That _was_ neutral,” he insists – and Athos can’t help staring back in confusion, because does Aramis _really_ feel that way all the time?

Then he says, “ _Oh,_ you mean something boring,” and Athos just nods his agreement, because the last thing he wants to do right now is have a conversation about emotional baselines. The last thing he wants to do is talk about _any_ of this really, but he’s sensible enough to know that it’s information he needs if he doesn’t want to lose his mind, and that Aramis is the only way to get it.

This time Aramis’ emotions are a little harder to isolate inside his mind, because they’re closer in timbre to Athos’ own; but once he’s found them he can definitely tell them from his own, even though they’re feeling the same things. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to explain to anyone else how he knows, though.

 _God,_ no wonder everything he’s read about this was so woolly. He’d been annoyed by it at the time, but he doesn’t think he could have done any better.

“I was thinking about paperwork,” Aramis volunteers. “We do a lot of it at work. Far more than we need to.”

“Okay.” Athos takes a sip of his coffee, hoping that Aramis won’t expect him to volunteer everything that goes through his own mind. “Now try something that makes you angry?”

“Okay.” Aramis grits his teeth – and Athos can _definitely_ feel it this time, doesn’t even need to search the bond to notice, and though the anger isn’t his and he isn’t aware of its object, it makes his own muscles tense, his lip want to curl and his fists clench.

He realises with a jolt of horror that if this is how he feels when Aramis is angry, how does Aramis feel when _he…?_

“Homophobia,” Aramis explains. “God, it really –” he stops abruptly, anger draining away completely as his face falls, a mirror of the way Athos feels inside. “I’ve upset you. I’m so sorry. What did it feel like?”

Athos can’t avoid a direct question; and so he clears his throat, and takes a gulp of his rapidly-cooling drink before replying, “I could – feel your anger, and I started to unconsciously reflect it myself, even though I didn’t know what I was angry about.”

Aramis is nodding, expression grave. “The book I brought with me warns about that, especially with newly-formed bonds. We’ll be able to control it, with practice.” He pauses, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to – hold my hand?”

“Why?” Athos manages, over the sudden thundering of his own pulse in his ears.

“I – okay.” Aramis runs a hand through his hair, and Athos feels another twinge behind his temple as he realises he’s upsetting Aramis again, although this time he has no idea why. “Sorry. I forget you don’t know. So – physical contact is important, with soul bonds.”

“Physical contact,” Athos echoes flatly.

“Yes, it’s – my book says it’s probably the most important thing we can do, actually. It has to be skin on skin. I know it took you by surprise yesterday, but now that you’re ready for it…?” Aramis’ expression is almost painfully optimistic. “It’ll make us both feel better.”

As Aramis fixes him with a tentative smile, Athos’ mind races through the possibilities. If he says no, he’ll probably upset him. Also, Aramis will no doubt expect to continue what they’re doing, and Athos doesn’t think he could stand to have Aramis’ sadness in his head right now. Nor does he want to be broadcasting his own feelings.

If he says yes – he’ll have to do it.

He decides to stall.

“This is… how does it work? Technically, I mean. When I touched your hand last night it was much – stronger.”

Aramis frowns. “What was?”

“Your feelings were,” Athos clarifies. “When we were touching I could feel what you were feeling, much more strongly.”

“Oh! That wasn’t me. Well, it was probably a little bit me, but mot of that was the bond itself.”

“So it’s not just magnifying what we’re feeling already?” Athos ventures, the relief already washing over him like a wave.

“No, that’s the beauty of it,” Aramis explains, beaming at Athos, who can’t help cautiously smiling back. “The bond wants us to be close, so it makes it feel good. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Aramis is paused, waiting for Athos’ agreement; and for a horrible moment Athos is torn between his unwillingness to lie, and the knowledge that anything approaching the truth will inevitably disappoint.

It’s starting to strike him that Aramis, much like apparently the entire internet, appears to think soul bonds are only a good thing – and for people who aren’t Athos, maybe they are.

Unsurprisingly, Athos hedges.

“It’s certainly clever, from an evolutionary standpoint,” he replies, “although to be frank, it doesn’t seem quite right, to be feeling things that aren’t me” – and he cringes immediately as he realises the full implications of what he’s just said.

But Aramis doesn’t seem to mind, at least; and though Athos urgently searches the link, he can’t find any evidence that he’s upset him again. “It _is_ you, though,” Aramis points out, “the bond. It’s both of us.” He holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

Athos can admit to himself that he has got better over the past few years, in some respects at least – better at not obsessing over the past, anyway, at accepting that what’s happened has happened and he can’t do anything to change it, that he just has to work out how to keep on living. Several abortive attempts at therapy have helped a little, and the passage of time has helped quite a bit more; and now that he’s prepared for it he thinks he can deal with those strange, seductive feelings a second time without giving into them, without thinking of _her_.

He reaches out to take Aramis’ hand.

The comforting warmth that spreads out from where the touch to envelop his whole body is not Aramis’ this time, Athos knows that much, though Aramis closes his eyes in wordless pleasure, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushions with a gentle sigh. It’s hormones, nothing more; and with that knowledge, he’s better equipped to withstand it.

He doesn’t trust it one bit, of course; and his eyes focus on the check of the tartan blanket under Aramis’ head to keep himself grounded, to stop him getting swept away and losing himself entirely in the feeling of Aramis’ skin on his.

When he decides he can’t take it any more, Athos gently detaches his fingers from Aramis’ just as he starts to lose his focus; and Aramis blinks as he turns his head back towards Athos, smiling slowly as if he’s drunk on it.

“Incredible,” Aramis murmurs as he looks into Athos’ eyes; and Athos can still feel the echoes of this strange new warmth settling in his muscles, and pretends to take a drink from his empty coffee cup to hide his awkwardness.

“Sofía described it to me once, but I never thought…”

“Sofía?” Athos echoes blankly, wondering if he’s forgotten someone he should have remembered.

“My eldest sister. She lives in Bristol. She’s been bonded almost ten years now. As are my parents. I should get them on Skype later, tell them the good news.” Aramis grins, laughter lines etched deep.

“How many of you are there?” Athos asks politely.

“Well, there’s my middle sister as well, Lucía, she lives in Lisbon now, and my parents moved back to Spain, that’s where they’re from. And there’s cousins and things, but…” Aramis shrugs, as if to imply the cousins aren’t particularly worth noting. “And you?”

Athos, at least, saw the question coming from a mile off.

“Just me,” he replies, perfectly matter-of-factly. “No immediate family. And nobody I’m – close to.”

_Which is the understatement of the century._

In the pause that follows he deliberately echoes Aramis’ shrug, as if to say, _that’s just how it is_. “You should try and reach your parents. And I’ll get the spare bedroom set up. I wouldn’t be a very good host if I left you on the sofa.”

“The – oh. Yes. Of course,” Aramis replies shortly; and Athos thinks with a twinge of self-loathing that perhaps that’s exactly what Aramis has thought of him so far, and then struggles to suppress the feeling just as quickly, before it’s noticed.

 _God_ , he hopes Aramis’ parents are talkers, he could do to get him out of the way long enough to have a proper drink.

“Hungry?” Aramis asks, apropos of nothing – and Athos stares at him in confusion, wondering if his stomach’s been rumbling without him noticing. He has to take a moment to consider, but he certainly doesn’t _feel_ hungry.

“I’m fine,” he replies shortly, already reaching out for the empty coffee cups. “The Wi-Fi password’s on the back of the router. I’ll get the bed made up.”

Aramis’ hand lands on his wrist, little finger brushing the back of Athos’ hand below the cuff of his cardigan; and it’s an effort not to jump at the tingly wave of warmth it sends through him. “Wait.”

Athos turns.

“Before you do that, I’d like to try this the other way at least once,” Aramis says, his hand lingering on Athos’ sleeve. “Think me something. Something happy.”

 _Fuck,_ Athos thinks distinctly.

Every truly happy memory he once had has been thoroughly tainted by what followed it; and though he’s been _content_ since then, has had moments of thinking that a life with a good whisky, a comfortable chair and an absorbing book wouldn’t be such a bad thing, he hardly thinks that’s what Aramis means.

He’s been happy with Porthos, he’s sure; but Porthos is furious with him at the moment, he remembers belatedly, and his mind’s coming up a slightly terrified blank.

Just as he gives up entirely, and tries to work out how he’ll explain to someone like Aramis that he can’t think of a single thing, it comes to him: the image of Aramis this morning, contentedly rummaging through his kitchen cupboards, apparently not a care in the world.

Aramis is the generous sort, he decides; and if Athos can’t summon up any happiness of his own, he’s sure Aramis wouldn’t begrudge Athos taking a little of his. He seems to have plenty to spare.

So he imagines he’s Aramis, and thinks himself happy, as hard as he can; and the answering smile that’s turned on him, the gentle squeeze of his wrist before Aramis lets go, tells him he’s passed that test, at least for now.


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis’ parents turn out to be serious talkers, in Athos’ opinion anyway, and he’s busy for nearly two hours, a melodious stream of fluent Spanish coming from his corner of the sofa as Athos keeps himself busy pottering, finding that after a sneaky glass of wine he’s surprisingly motivated to get some of the outstanding housework done, and deciding to seize the moment.

He remains on edge for the first half-hour, worried that he’ll be called over behind the laptop for an introduction, but slowly finds himself relaxing when nothing is forthcoming; and he even cracks a small smile when he walks behind the back of the sofa and realises that Aramis doesn’t actually have a webcam, even, and all his expansive hand gestures have been for Athos’ benefit entirely.

Athos manages to cobble together a half-decent dinner, mostly motivated by an ongoing sense of vague guilt; but Aramis seems happy enough, chatting away about his parents’ farmhouse renovation (“It’s a _mess_ , my father was supposed to arrange everything but he’s just spending every afternoon at the local café smoking and drinking coffee with the other old men, he missed that in London, and my mother’s going _spare_ ”), and Lucía’s law firm and Sofía’s mysterious job (“It’s in an office, something to do with computers. I don’t really know, she’s tried to explain it to me but we both just get frustrated”); and Athos smiles and nods in all the right places, and grits his teeth slightly when Aramis says sunnily that his parents are looking forward to meeting Athos, because he’s pretty sure that he’s not going to be worth the trip.

After dinner they spend an hour or two in the living room together with a glass of wine (Aramis on his laptop, Athos staring continually at the same page on his e-reader and wondering whether it’s late enough yet that he can justify excusing himself) when Aramis pops into the spare room for a moment and comes back with a book in hand.

“I don’t know if you wanted to read some of this,” he says, holding out the book on soul bonds that Athos remembers seeing earlier, “but it might help. Give you a few more of those answers you’re looking for.”

“I will. Thank you,” Athos replies, reaching out to take it.

“And –” Aramis sits down heavily, “I just want to say that – I realise that you want to take it slow, and that’s completely fine with me. I mean –” he smiles, though it looks a little forced – “we’ve got the rest of our lives, right?”

Athos frowns. “Take what slowly?”

“Sex, of course.”

 _Sex_ , Athos repeats to himself, with a mounting sense of shock.

_He thinks we –_

_Oh, fuck._

To his credit, he does not panic. In fact, he definitely is not panicking even a little as he scrubs at his forehead with one hand and says, “Okay. Alright. I think we’ve got some crossed wires here.”

Aramis frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Athos makes himself say, “this isn’t a sexual thing. I’m straight.”

For a few moments, there is a horrible silence.

“You can’t be,” Aramis insists then, actually managing to sound offended by the idea. “You’re my _soul mate_. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“There are platonic soul mates,” Athos argues immediately.

“Yes, but you’re _mine!_ ” Aramis throws up his hands, and though he isn’t directing his frustration at Athos, the spike of it through the bond is almost as upsetting as if Aramis had shouted at him. “Sorry. I’m not angry with _you_ , it’s just… it makes no sense, that you would be…”

Aramis runs a hand through his hair, clearly distressed; and Athos almost wants to take it back, he thinks selfishly, just so he doesn’t have to watch him like this and know that he was responsible.

“Maybe I’m just early, so to speak,” Aramis says in the end, the hopefulness creeping back into his face. “Maybe you’re not a hundred per cent straight, and you just don’t know it yet?”

“It is possible. Technically,” Athos replies, because technically speaking it _is;_ though he certainly doesn’t want to give Aramis any false hope.

Given what he’s already learned about him, in hindsight it should have been obvious that any visions Aramis had of his own soul bond would have included, well, romance.

The poor man, Athos thinks, with a twinge of sympathy, to have had such hopes for his soul mate – and to have ended up with him.

He can feel Aramis’ pain blooming in the corner of his mind, fresh and raw, and it’s been a long time since Athos has felt that kind of _grief_ , used to a sort of weary disappointment at himself and the world for continuing to exist, interspersed with bouts of occasional fear about nothing at all; and he doesn’t know whether it’s for Aramis’ sake or his own that he finds himself saying, “Well. There was… I don’t know if you count school.”

The sharpness behind Athos’ left temple drops away rather suddenly as Aramis sits up, leaning his elbows on the arm of the sofa as he looks over at Athos, suddenly _very_ interested. “I always count school,” he replies. “What about school?”

“I went to boarding school,” Athos replies, in the hope that that will say it all; and when Aramis raises a questioning eyebrow he forces himself to elaborate. “There were a few instances of – well. Hand jobs, mostly.”

Aramis frowns, tilting his head. “Mostly?”

“We once, erm…” Athos bites his lip as he feels his cheeks heating, “he called it ‘Oxford style’.”

“‘Oxford style’?” Aramis repeats, as if he’s trying and failing to suppress a smile; and _he’s enjoying this_ , Athos realises.

“Between the thighs,” he replies shortly, draining his glass and resisting the temptation to go and refill it straight away.

“Okay,” Aramis smiles, “and how would you explain this, as a heterosexual?”

“Well, it was boarding school,” Athos says – a little desperately, he’s starting to see how this sounds a lot less reasonable out loud than it always has in his head. “There were no girls, so…”

He almost reaches for its glass again before he realises it’s empty, and has to resist the temptation to put his head in his hands.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Aramis replies, stretching in a way that’s almost feline. “I went to an all boys’ school as well, for a few years. I was forced to leave my mixed school when the headmaster objected to the private tutoring his daughter had asked me to give her.” He grins mischievously, suddenly looking about ten years younger. “And the boys who told you it didn’t mean anything, that it was just what everybody did when there were no girls? I was one of those boys.” His smile is compassionate, at least, not like he’s having fun at Athos’ expense. “So I know. And I’m afraid we lied to you. Not everyone was doing it at all. The ones who did – well, there was generally a reason for that.” He leans over to pat Athos gently on the knee. “Shall I open another bottle?”

“Please,” Athos replies, allowing himself to give in to the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh as Aramis goes to the kitchen.

He comes back with an open bottle of red, perching on the corner of the sofa and filling up Athos’ glass generously; and Athos almost forgets to be embarrassed by how quickly he brings it to his lips.

“Look,” Aramis says seriously, “the last thing I want to do is put any pressure on you, to say that you do, or you don’t. And I don’t mind at all how you identify. I just – want there to be a chance, at least.”

He looks so earnest, Athos thinks, those dark eyes so full of hope, that it makes Athos’ chest clench painfully, no matter how valiantly he tries to suppress the feeling.

He doesn’t know how he’d stand breaking Aramis’ heart.

“I… don’t want to promise anything,” Athos manages, the closest he can bear to get to explaining just what a hopeless case he is. “Not when we barely know each other.”

“No, of _course_ ,” Aramis agrees immediately – and it seems Athos has said the right thing somehow, as he notes the sudden warmth in his mind that’s definitely not of his own making. “We’ll just take it one day at a time, yeah? We’ll work it out.”

And Aramis doesn’t know _him_ at all, Athos reminds himself; and if they take their time then he’ll come to realise that there are much more interesting people out there for him, even if he has to stay close to Athos for the sake of the bond.

Who knows, if Athos is lucky, Aramis might not even mind that part. Perhaps they’ll stay friends – he could probably use another friend. Maybe Aramis won’t come to resent him for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and shackling Aramis to him for life.

 _Steady on,_ he thinks darkly _. Don’t get ahead of yourself._

“Alright?” Aramis asks, his hand a careful pressure on Athos’ forearm – and Athos realises he hasn’t said anything for just a little too long, that he’s been sitting here and broadcasting his thoughts like a beacon.

“I’m alright. It’s just a lot to take in,” he explains – and Aramis seems to buy it, face sympathetic as he rubs reassuring circles over the wool of Athos’ cardigan with his thumb.

“I understand,” Aramis replies, “I remember when I realised it might not only be girls I liked – I didn’t _mind,_ exactly, but you have this idea in your head of who you’re going to be, don’t you? How your life’s going to turn out. Even if it’s just a reflection of who everybody else expects you to be.” He gives a little laugh. “And then you realise that’s not who you are at all.”

Athos doesn’t know quite what he was expecting Aramis to say, but it wasn’t anything nearly so astute; it takes him by surprise, and he only just manages to stop the inevitable thoughts of Anne, of Tom, and to head them off before they can drag him down, give him away.

“I never took the test, did I tell you?” he says instead. “For the mutation. It never even occurred to me to do so. I was a de la Fère, we didn’t have soul bonds. And yes – I knew exactly who I was going to be.”

“Wow. I can’t imagine,” Aramis replies, letting go of Athos’ arm to pour himself another glass of wine. “I had to have the test twice. The first time I was twelve, I was a bit of a late developer, and the nurse told me my hormones hadn’t kicked in yet. I was so disappointed.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “I had it again the next year. My parents were a bond, I had one positive sister and one negative, and it kept me awake at night wondering. When I found out I was positive too… well. I was waiting to find my soul mate for more than half my life.”

“No pressure,” Athos quips, in an attempt to cover the sudden feeling of inadequacy Aramis’ words bring with them.

“Oh – I didn’t mean to –” Aramis grips the sofa arm with his free hand, looking remorseful. “I realise I’ve basically turned your life upside-down in the last twenty-four hours. Whereas I’ve had years to be ready for this. To get impatient.”

And being ready can make all the difference, Athos decides. He can deal with most things, as long as he’s ready for them.

“I might read some of that book tonight,” he says.

“Sure. Oh! I forgot. Did you know that we have to register the bond?”

Athos frowns. “With the council?”

“At the register office. The government merged bond registrations with marriages and civil partnerships a couple of years ago. Apparently it saved a lot of money.”

“I’m not getting married,” Athos manages to say, cold fear lancing through him as he processes Aramis’ words.

He’s never going to marry again. That’s a line in the sand he will not cross, whatever the reason.

“Hey,” Aramis says, reaching for his hand; but Athos sees it coming and folds his arms in time, so Aramis is left having to turn the movement into a pat on the knee instead. “That’s not what it is. We absolutely don’t have to get married, if you don’t want. We’re just filling in a couple of forms, and they do it in the same building. Which is better than having the council handle it, if you ask me – they lost my sister’s soul bond paperwork when she and David applied for a marriage licence. It took so long to sort out they almost had to give up the wedding venue.” He pauses, sneaks a nervous glance at Athos. “But I’m babbling. You just need to bring some ID.”

“Alright,” Athos replies. He can feel a headache coming on, though he decides that’s infinitely preferable to giving his emotions free rein. “Tomorrow, then? We can get it out of the way.”

“Sounds good,” Aramis smiles. “It’ll be good to get out of the house.”

Athos nearly points out that they left the house today – but manages to bite his tongue just in time. He does realise, at least, that his idea of ‘normal’ is not the same as most other people’s.

“Okay. I’m going to turn in, unless you need anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Aramis pauses awkwardly – and then apparently thinks better of whatever was on his mind. “Night.”

“Night,” Athos replies shortly, picking up the book from the coffee table, and – after a moment’s hesitation – refills his wine glass and takes them both into his bedroom, closing the door with a sigh of relief he tries extremely hard not to feel.

 _God_ , this is tiring. _People_ are tiring – and while that’s no surprise (he’s known that for years), having someone in his space and in his _head_ , every minute of every day, sensing how he feels – it’s exhausting.

He really hopes there’s something in this book of Aramis’ that’ll teach him how to control his link. He doesn’t know how long he’ll manage to keep it together otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

Normally Athos can choose between chronic insomnia and passing out drunk, both of which only seem to net him a few hours of restless sleep per night; but as soon as he lies down he’s exhausted, and before he knows it it’s morning again, though it’s still dark outside.

It almost feels like an achievement for a few moments, before he remembers that today’s the day of dealing with his surprise marriage – sorry, _form-filling_.

Logically, he can see the sense of it; if the vast majority of bonded couples end up having either a marriage or a civil partnership as well, then it undoubtedly saves time and money having the paperwork dealt with in the same place. It’s just the principle of the thing, though.

He tentatively searches the link, glad to find that Aramis is still asleep. Being a nurse means shift work, Athos supposes, and he’s probably one of those irritating people who can fall asleep at any time, anywhere. He can’t help feeling a little envious, though he supposes it works out alright if it gives him a little peace and quiet inside his own head.

He dresses quickly and heads out into the flat, shutting the kitchen door to muffle the sound of the coffee maker before sitting himself down in the armchair with a fresh black coffee and Aramis’ book on soul bonds.

He starts with the introduction; but quickly finds himself skimming down the paragraphs as he realises there’s nothing particularly informative in them. After all, it was pretty obvious already that the purpose of the book is to help ‘you and your partner’ get used to a new soul bond.

And though the language in the book is very carefully gender-neutral, Athos still can’t help getting the feeling it’s aimed at straight couples as a whole, and is unlikely to answer any of the questions he’s starting to ask – such as whether soul bonds correspond directly to an individual’s sexual orientation, for a start.

If you’re a straight man, will you only bond with a woman? Is it just more likely? Or will you bond with the first person who’s genetically compatible, and sucks to be you if that happens to be another man?

Does his extra chromosome know his sexual orientation, presumably better than he does himself?

He heaves a sigh as he turns back to the table of contents, scanning down the list of chapters in vain. Of _course_ there’s no section on sexual orientation. There is one on platonic bonds… but after last night’s conversation, he’s strangely reluctant to turn to it.

 _Later_ , he promises himself. Right now, there are other more pressing matters.

Instead, he turns to the chapter entitled ‘Managing your emotions’.

As he reads, Athos realises that while – again – the information therein isn’t exactly what he needs, being as it is not aimed at miserable divorcés in their mid-thirties who if they’re honest with themselves have something of a drinking problem, the book does at least acknowledge that even the happiest soul mates will sometimes have a bad day that they don’t want to just dump on their other half, and so they need to be able to close off their links from time to time.

He reads the next paragraphs carefully.

‘ _Opening and closing your link is a very personal process, and you’ll have to experiment to find out exactly how it works for you. First, get used to visualising the inside of your own mind. If you’re not sure how to do this, try imagining it as a room to start off with – but it’s best to use whatever comes naturally. Know where the edges are, and become familiar with the space you’ll be working in. Commit it to memory._

_‘Then, once you’ve created an image of your mind that you can draw on easily, locate the source of your link. This is the area in your mind where you feel your soul mate’s emotions, and is the same place you will have felt a pain when the bond first formed. If you’re having trouble finding it, ask your soul mate to help you by sending you a happy thought, so that the link shines brighter.’_

Athos spends a few minutes working on visualising the room in his mind, as instructed, ignoring the little niggling part of his brain that’s telling him you can’t visualise something as abstract as your own consciousness in any meaningful way. He starts with his flat, as it was when he moved in – magnolia walls, wood-grain flooring, no furniture – but that quickly feels all wrong, and when what his brain offers him instead is a suggestion of dark oak panelling and low lighting that reminds him inescapably of his father’s study, he nearly jumps out of his chair.

 _You can take the man out of the ancestral home,_ he thinks wryly. He hadn’t realised the room had made that deep an impression on him. He certainly hadn’t used it for long enough himself to ever feel that it was his and not his father’s; and _afterwards_ all he’d wanted was to burn the place to the ground, though in the end he had to compromise with the lawyers and sell it for whatever he could get.

The vision in his mind is hardly clear, and he couldn’t focus on any of the details, but he doesn’t think that’s what’s important. Rather, he needs to be able to find his way around the room, chart the space, and develop a sense of the way his own thoughts fill it – including the dark corner behind his left temple where Aramis is present yet silent, his body sleeping on, and where Athos’ own thoughts no longer reach.

He’s probably making this harder for himself by doing it alone, when it would no doubt be much easier with Aramis awake; but he’ll just have to make do, Athos decides, he can’t run the risk of it not working first time and giving away more than he intends to.

He reads on.

_‘To close the link is an act of will. For most people, it’s easiest if they visualise a physical barrier between their soul mate’s thoughts and their own: a door that they can close, for example, or a wall that they can raise and lower. It’s best to choose a barrier that can be controlled gradually, so you can visualise yourself closing your link as much or as little as you need to.’_

_An act of will_ , he thinks, remembering how he tried yesterday to suppress his feelings, and how it seemed to work.

If he can get the hang of closing his link – not to try and stop himself feeling at all, but instead keeping his feelings contained – then perhaps he’ll be able to get through the day without tension headaches, without the constant longing for a drink.

Perhaps in time, it’ll become second nature.

He just has to get through this week, he reminds himself, this forced proximity while the bond settles down. After that, Aramis will be back at work and Athos will have some time to himself again, time to relax. He assumes Aramis works at the hospital, which is the other side of the city, and he doubts the link is able to stretch that far. He should check that though, of course – he did see a chapter called ‘Dealing with distance’.

First he returns to his visualisation; and imagines a close-up on the link to Aramis’ thoughts, so he can work out how to shut them off.

It’s a tunnel, he decides, a large pipe, or some sort of hole; and though there’s nothing coming through it he knows instinctively that the link is open, that Aramis only needs to wake for his emotions to start trickling through.

Slowly, with great effort, Athos imagines squeezing the pipe shut, like stepping on a hosepipe, cutting off the flow.

He loses the image about half way through, it slipping from his mind like smoke; but he supposes it’s like any new skill, it takes time to develop, and with Aramis asleep he doubts he would have felt it working anyway.

He takes a moment to relax and then tries again, this time imagining raising a grille over the entrance to the pipe, cutting off the flow at his end; and feels a little satisfaction when he manages to sustain the effort for several seconds without losing focus, the idea of a physical barrier coming much more naturally.

He rubs at his temple with one hand, where a fresh headache’s starting to form.

_Right. Try again later._

He takes another sip of coffee, and turns to ‘Dealing with distance’.

He was right, Athos learns as he reads: the bond appears to have a maximum range of about twenty metres, depending on both the individuals involved and the ‘healthiness’ of the bond, which is a word he’s seen thrown around a couple of times now as if its meaning is self-evident. It does mean, at least, that once the bond has settled they’ll be able to do their own thing, live their lives somewhat, and not be constantly interdependent.

He flicks through the next few pages, but they’re all about how to manage your soul mate’s business trips and prolonged absences, and that’s not really relevant to him.

The next chapter he comes to is ‘Physical intimacy’ – and Athos closes the book abruptly in embarrassment, fumbling it with his fingers and dropping it clumsily on its spine on the coffee table, where it immediately falls open again at exactly the same page.

He picks it back up as if he’s handling a wild animal, and turns it over to find that the spine is thoroughly cracked at exactly that point.

Clearly, Aramis has spent a _lot_ of time reading that particular chapter, he realises; and the idea makes him feel somewhere between _very_ embarrassed and sort of fearful and beneath it all a little intrigued; and Athos pushes back at the link in his mind almost before he realises he’s doing it, deciding he needs to have Aramis safely out of the way at work before he even starts thinking about anything of that nature.

He’s just about calmed down when Aramis opens his bedroom door, in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

Predictably, Athos loses his grip on the link entirely.

“Oh you _are_ up,” Aramis mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. “I wasn’t sure.”

Athos looks quickly away when his eyes start to follow the line of hair leading down from Aramis’ navel into his boxers. “Good morning,” he replies, hurriedly reaching for his coffee again.

“Oh, you’re reading the book!” Aramis exclaims, suddenly animated. “Give me quarter of an hour and I’ll come and hear all about it.”

Once Aramis is freshly showered (and dressed, at least, Athos thinks darkly, do most people just walk around in their pants nowadays?), he comes to sit by Athos with a coffee of his own, wet-haired; and Athos starts by saying he read about the link’s limited reach (“Sofía always said it was like Wi-Fi”) before easing into his real discovery: that they can control the intensity of the link, even hold it closed completely.

“Go on, then,” Aramis prompts eagerly. “Show me.”

Athos is prepared this time, he’s had the whole of Aramis’ shower time (listening to him humming over the sounds of the water, and once sensing something uncomfortably like a thrum of sexual arousal, that had him going into the kitchen and deliberately turning the hot tap on for a few seconds, until he heard a muffled curse) to come up with an appropriate happy thought; and so he sends Aramis the mental image of a cute kitten with big, soulful eyes that Porthos sent him in an email the other day before carefully pushing up his walls until his own awareness of Aramis dwindles down into nothing.

“Oh,” Aramis exclaims softly, his face creasing, but Athos can’t feel it at all inside his mind; and once he’s counted slowly to ten he relaxes again before saying, “So what did you observe?”

“That was horrible!” Aramis blurts out, with that same creased-up expression that Athos can now sense as distress.

He’s so surprised by it that all that comes out of his mouth is a barked, “What?”

“It feels horrible,” Aramis repeats. “Sort of blank, here.” He taps his fingers against his right temple, a mirror of where Athos feels Aramis in his own mind. “It’s like when you’re asleep, but you’re sitting right here in front of me and I know you’re not. I don’t like it,” he insists, in a way that reminds Athos uncomfortably of a child.

“It’s important, though,” Athos points out, a little impatiently. “We can’t always be inside each other’s heads.”

“Why ever not?”

Athos has to take a steadying breath and remind himself that he’s used to dealing with difficult people, before replying, “Alright. So imagine you’re very upset about something, or very angry. If you don’t do anything to control the link, then I’m going to be experiencing that almost as strongly as you are.”

“Oh, of course,” Aramis replies, abashed. “I wouldn’t want that at all.”

“Which is exactly why you need to be able to close the link,” Athos finishes. “For the times when you have to. And for the times when you just need your privacy.”

“Alright,” Aramis replies, heavy with reluctance. “But… later, okay?”

“Sure. Whenever you’re ready.”

He supposes there isn’t really a rush. Aramis isn’t the one with the issues, after all.

“Okay.” Aramis smiles, and Athos can tell it’s already forgotten. “Brunch?”

There are some definite upsides to this soul mate business, Athos decides over a plate of French toast; it’s funny how much better he always feels after food, considering that he’s consistently terrible at remembering to feed himself, and he’s beginning to wonder if Aramis’ own heart is located in his stomach. Either way, he seems quite happy to take the lead in the kitchen, and Athos reminds himself that he needs to come up with some acceptable-sounding answers for when Aramis asks him what he ‘normally’ eats.

Once they’ve finished and the plates are cleared away, Athos reaches for his e-reader again, expecting that they’ll both go back to doing their own thing; but he notices Aramis getting more and more restless behind his laptop, and Athos feels his own fuse getting shorter in the face of Aramis’ near-constant shifting and murmuring to himself and jiggling his leg until he suddenly glances over at Athos and says, “What is it?”

“I’m getting restless,” Athos says. “We should go out.”

“Oh, for the bond registration!” Aramis beams. “I’ll just put my shoes on.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Well, this is typical,” Athos murmurs, standing in front of the closed front door of the register office. “Sometimes I wonder why I even pay my taxes.”

“For numerous public services, and for the responsibility of checking the opening hours yourself before heading out,” Aramis quips beside him, patting Athos on the shoulder before getting his phone out and glancing at the screen. “They open again in forty-five minutes. Shall we get a drink somewhere? I’m bloody freezing.” He hunches down inside his jacket with a noticeable shiver, reminding Athos he was going to see about getting him a proper coat at some point.

They end up going into the first place they come to, a rather nondescript coffee shop with wipe-down tablecloths and a selection of slightly unappetising-looking traybakes on offer, where Athos has barely had a chance to sit down and sip his underwhelming Americano when Aramis says with a hopeful smile, “I’d like to get to know each other a bit better. I mean, I know this is only day three, but I want to know more about the man I’m going to be spending the rest of my life with.”

Athos loses all power of speech for a few moments at that, just the words _the rest of my life_ ringing in his ears, like the aftershocks of an explosion.

That is, he supposes, the very definition of what’s happening here. A permanent, unbreakable bond – and the sooner he faces up to it, the better.

He supposes he’d be more unhappy if he’d actually been doing anything worthwhile with his life before Aramis came along.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says suddenly, reaching for Athos’ hand – his own hand still gloved, at least – and Athos realises that he’s just been sitting there and giving Aramis the thousand-yard stare, and feels a lurch of guilt. “I keep forgetting how new this all is for you.”

And Aramis looks so contrite that Athos can’t help saying, “No, it’s alright. Best get used to the idea,” though he thinks it’s wishful thinking more than anything.

He lets Aramis keep hold of his hand, because he doesn’t mind really, and it seems to be making Aramis happy. He does worry for a moment that it might count as leading him on somehow; but it’s hardly a declaration of love, and Athos feels a little as though he owes it to Aramis to at least offer the things he actually has to give.

“So,” Aramis says, “tell me about Athos.”

Faced with a direct question, Athos shrugs, a little helplessly. “What do you want to know?”

“Hmm…” Aramis makes a show of considering the question. “What do you do for fun?”

 _Thank fuck_ , Athos thinks distinctly. He’d been half-dreading a question about past relationships, or a potted life history. Hobbies, at least, he can bullshit his way through.

“Reading, mainly, I suppose? I try and keep myself educated. I like cinema, though I’m afraid the TV’s broken. Good wines. Theatre, occasionally? And – well, my best friend’s probably not speaking to me at the moment.” He can’t help wincing as he remembers Porthos’ expression of betrayal, just before he bolted from the bar.

“Oh, I already emailed him actually, to apologise,” Aramis replies, finally letting go of Athos’ hand. “He was very gracious about it. I mean, we did like each other and all, but we hadn’t exactly had a chance to get serious.”

“Oh.” Again, Athos finds he’s momentarily stumped – by the notion that one would keep in touch with an ex, he supposes, the scorched-earth method being more his experience.

And of course there’s the fact that Aramis has already reached out to Athos’ best friend after only knowing him a few weeks, whereas Athos himself hasn’t even tried to find the words yet, too concerned with his own problems.

“What did he say?”

“That it was a pity for him, but not to be helped,” Aramis replies easily. “Though to be honest, I did get the impression that the two of you had some unfinished business. So you should probably give him a ring.”

That will be the part where his straight, bond negative friend has suddenly formed a soul bond with another man, Athos decides.

“Right. So tell me about you?”

Aramis, Athos quickly surmises, appears to have exactly as little in common with him as he’d suspected, on a surface level at least – he’s very much a people person, working slightly odd hours and apparently spending as much time as he can socialising outside of them. His family, too, is important to him, though geographically dispersed; and Athos can’t help feeling a little glad that at least he won’t suddenly have a raft of parents and siblings descending on them without warning.

He likes clubbing and riding roller coasters, and probably other things which cause the type of adrenaline spikes that Athos has learned to dread; and Athos is just starting to think that the universe really has fucked up this time when Aramis saves him by checking his phone again and exclaiming, “Oh, they’ll be open now.”

When they get back to the register office, the front door is indeed open; and there’s nobody inside save one bored-looking woman at the reception desk who barely bothers looking up at their greeting.

Athos decides for directness over politeness.

“Soul bond registration, please.”

“You two? Fill this in,” she replies disinterestedly, passing over a greenish form. “I’ll need to take copies of both your ID.”

As she goes off to the photocopier, they both leave the form lying awkwardly on the table between them for a moment, looking at it as if it’s a bomb about to go off; before Aramis is the first to find his voice. “You should fill it in. I’ll just put everything in the wrong boxes.”

Athos takes the form, and reaches for the ubiquitous pen on a string that’s stuck to the desk in front of him. Today’s date, the name of the register office pre-printed; and then his own details, which are straightforward enough until he hits the question entitled ‘Marital status’.

He hesitates, glancing to the side, where out of the corner of his eye he can see Aramis leaning slightly against him, reading everything he writes.

Athos very carefully does not look over again as he checks the box marked ‘Divorced’.

He fills in the rest of his details to a resounding silence from Aramis, before pushing the form to one side and dropping the pen carelessly on top of it.

It’s not until they leave the register office again, stepping out into the chilly afternoon, that Aramis says carefully, “You were married, then?”

“Yes,” Athos replies shortly, resisting to the temptation to say something sarcastic, or to feel for the link. He’s not sure he wants to know.

When he realises that Aramis is waiting for him to elaborate, he adds, “It – was not a success.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Aramis replies, immediately sympathetic, reaching for Athos’ arm and giving it a squeeze that Athos thinks is meant to be reassuring in some way. “I can’t imagine. To have thought you’d met – well, your soul mate, I suppose.”

Athos can’t help wincing, though he thinks he just about manages to hide it. The last thing he wants to think about is just how naïve he was back then; how that was really what he’d thought, and how hard the lesson he had to learn.

“It’s not quite the same,” he manages, just about stopping short of saying that you can never truly know another person, and that it’s a waste of time even to try.

Even with this bond between them, he hopes Aramis will still build a life of his own, and never settle for the sorry situation he’s been landed with.

“No – this time we _know_ , don’t we?” Aramis says; and Athos doesn’t reply, just letting Aramis’ arm stay wrapped around the crook of his elbow, as he tries as hard as he can not to give full rein to his thoughts.

When Aramis’ hand slides down into Athos’ coat pocket and he links his fingers into his, Athos allows that too, hoping that it will be enough and that he won’t have to say anything at all.

He feels like he’s crossing a narrow bridge above a chasm, timbers creaking, the whole structure swaying in the wind, knowing he should just jump and get it over with but unable to stop himself clinging to life, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other with no hope of it doing any good in the end.

They take a long route home through the park, and dusk is falling by the time they make it back to the flat; and Athos excuses himself with a mumble about needing to check on work, going straight into his bedroom and closing the door with a sigh.

 _God_ , he feels like he could sleep for a week, or that he wants to. And his headache’s come back.

It’s then that he notices the half-empty bottle of rum still on top of his chest of drawers.

_Just to take the edge off._

He kicks off his shoes, unscrews the cap, and drinks.

If he could just bear to be honest – if he were _strong_ enough – he’d tell Aramis what sooner or later, he’ll need to hear: that he’s very sorry, but Athos is simply a hopeless case. That Aramis should save himself for somebody with something to give, who can give him what he no doubt deserves. Hell, he wouldn’t care if Aramis kept dating Porthos, even, he’s sure it would work out better for everyone concerned.

He can’t lie to him – he won’t – but neither can he summon up the courage to say what it needs to be said; and so he dodges questions, avoids every overture towards intimacy that Aramis offers him, too cowardly to admit he’s not worth hoping for.

This is the line he walks, and he has no way of knowing how long he can sustain it before everything crumbles beneath him entirely.

He’s a sham, he decides. It’s a mess.

It’s a mistake, it has to be; and even though it’s happening to him he doesn’t believe a single moment of it.

 _Soul bond,_ he thinks, _soul mates. The One_.

No, he doesn’t believe in any of it.

The numbers don’t even make sense. If there was one person on this earth predestined for him, how many lifetimes would he have to live before he met them, let alone someone in the same country as him, the same town? And an introduction through a friend, at that, not even a chance encounter.

He’s met positive people before who were unbonded, so there’s no question that he would have bonded with _anyone_ , exactly. But he can only believe it’s a question of compatibility, nothing more. One in a hundred, perhaps, one in a thousand, maybe even one in ten thousand. He wonders if anyone knows the likely numbers, if there have been studies done, if anyone’s even made an intelligent guess.

The vast majority of positive people bond, he does know that much; thirty-three isn’t such an old age for it, and Aramis is a few years younger.

How many other brilliant, suitable people might he have been able to spend his life with, if he hadn't had the misfortune to meet Athos first?

 _Soul mates, my arse,_ he thinks defiantly, taking a swig of rum. They’re not ‘fated’ to be together. All they have in common is compatible DNA and an accident of circumstance; and he’s too weak to even try and do anything about it.

His headache’s getting worse, and he takes another drink to calm it, collapses back into his pillow and closes his eyes.

Improbably, he must have dozed – the next thing he knows it’s fully dark out, and as he blinks his eyes disorientedly open he realises that what must have woken him is the tapping at his door, and Aramis’ voice calling out carefully, “Athos?”

He clicks the light on, wincing at the assault on his eyelids, before opening the door.

Aramis looks – worried, Athos notes vaguely, his hands are jammed in his pockets and his eyes do a skittish little dance, as if he’s trying to see into Athos’ room but doesn’t want to make it obvious. “Hey. I don’t feel like cooking, so I’m just going to do some of the pizzas I found in the freezer, if that’s good with you?”

“Yes. That’s fine,” Athos replies groggily, resisting the temptation to lean against the doorframe for support. “I’m just going to – I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

“I know, I can feel it,” Aramis replies, with a sympathetic smile. “Have you had some paracetamol?”

“There’s some in my room,” Athos replies, not sure if it counts as a lie if it’s technically possible that he has got some somewhere – before realising the full implications of what Aramis has just said. “You can feel it?”

“Yes. Not – you haven’t given it to me,” Aramis clarifies hastily, “but I could sort of tell. It feels a bit grey in there, sort of confused.”

 _That’s just my usual mental state,_ Athos half-wants to say, but he nods instead. “That makes sense.”

“Right. Well, I’ll let you rest,” Aramis replies, and Athos turns back into his room, closes the door and clicks the light off, vaguely alarmed when he feels himself sway a little ­– surely he hasn’t had that much to drink.

He gets clumsily back onto the bed and lies on his front this time, putting his bedside lamp on low and trying to focus and not to feel disoriented, counting the stripes on his pillow aloud in his head and telling himself he’s not going to go back there, he can’t afford to, he’s better now.

Being empty inside is fine; he’s used to feeling hollowed-out, as though everything that happens is pointless. He may not have beaten that feeling entirely but he’s at least learned how to cope, to do an impression of a functional human being when he needs to: to talk to other people and make all the right noises, to work enough so he isn’t losing money hand over fist, even, occasionally, to feel content. Hell, he could fake it every day for the rest of his life… as long as the panic doesn’t come back.

If the panic comes back, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to hide it.

He needs to do something. Being anxious about being anxious is probably enough to set him off, and he just needs a distraction, he needs –

It’s the thought of Aramis feeling him panic that has him pushing himself up from the bed and reaching for the nearest thing – a chewed-up biro and one of those Sudoku pocketbooks he doesn’t even remember buying – and picking a medium-level puzzle and just losing himself in the numbers.

He’ll do this, and if he finishes this he’ll do another, and then another, until he doesn’t feel anything any more.

He’s almost at the end of his second puzzle when Aramis knocks again to announce that the pizza’s ready, and he comes out of his room and walks into the kitchen and eats not because he’s hungry, but because it’s easier than trying to back out; and he listens to Aramis apologising that he couldn’t find anything in the fridge to make a salad with and ignores the concerned looks coming his way. Then he goes back into his room and drinks and fills in more puzzles until the numbers start to blur before his eyes, and he lies down with the light still on because it’s no more worth reaching for the switch and turning it off than it is doing anything else, and thinks about how much easier it would be if he didn’t have to exist.


	7. Chapter 7

Athos doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes there’s grey morning light filtering in through the window, where he never closed the curtains. He does a quick head-to-toe check of his body – his head’s pounding again and his mouth feels like a graveyard, and he doesn’t feel the world spin as he pushes himself gingerly up into a sitting position. Sober, then, with a side order of ever-present self-loathing.

He automatically searches the link in his mind and finds that Aramis is still asleep; and he’s unable to help feeling a little relieved that he’s alone inside his head again, for a little while at least. He’s not sure he feels any better than he did yesterday, though he knows that sooner or later he’ll just have to pull himself together and face him again.

He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, so all he has to do is lever himself off the bed, piss and then head into the kitchen, where he’s just picking up his newly-made cup of coffee when he feels a slow-building warmth in his mind that must mean Aramis is waking up, from obnoxiously cheerful dreams no doubt.

Wait, make that _very_ cheerful dreams – and it’s not until Athos feels his jeans start to grow uncomfortably tight that he realises exactly what Aramis has just been dreaming about.

Things happen very quickly after that.

Firstly, Athos fumbles the cup he’s holding, spilling the hot liquid over his hand with a curse before dropping it entirely. It smashes on the tiled floor, making an unholy noise and sending what was left of the coffee spattering all up his jeans and the side of the kitchen cupboard.

Next, he slams up his mind’s internal walls in an effort to contain what is the most mortification he thinks he’s ever felt in his adult life, while squatting down to pick up the largest porcelain shards from the floor, before getting the dustpan and brush out of the cupboard and sweeping up, grabbing a few sheets of kitchen roll to mop up the rest of the coffee and finishing off with a squirt of Dettol, all the while concentrating furiously on keeping his own thoughts in and Aramis’ thoughts very firmly _out_.

Once the kitchen floor is clean again Athos makes himself a new coffee and takes it back to his bedroom, where he tentatively begins to relax the iron grip on his mind, sure that Aramis will have stopped, must have stopped when he heard the -

When a fresh wave of arousal floods his system and Athos’ cock starts to throb alarmingly, he realises with slow-mounting horror that Aramis has very much _not_ stopped.

Athos pushes his mental walls firmly back up and sinks down on the edge of the bed, jamming his hands firmly beneath his thighs to stop himself giving into temptation as he waits for the feeling – not even a feeling, really, it’s just a physiological response – to subside.

This is torture, he thinks faintly. It must be against his human rights somehow.

He can’t remember the last time he even _had_ an erection, given that he’s been drunk, miserable or both for God only knows how long; and it’s overwhelming, like his body’s awakened from a long sleep and is now urgently reminding him just how much lost time he needs to make up for.

If he had a choice, he’d walk out the door right now and keep on walking until he couldn’t feel Aramis in his head any more. In fact, he’s almost tempted to just do it, potential migraine or no. Hell, Aramis probably deserves a nice migraine for putting him through this.

Athos leans over to grab the bottle of rum that’s still on his bedside table, noting that he never put the cap back on last night; and alternates sips of rum with sips of coffee, trying to ignore the way his cock is pressing almost painfully against the seam of his jeans, before a faint wave of arousal pushes through his weakening defences, and it’s only digging his nails into his palms and biting the inside of his lip until it bleeds that stops him losing his resolve.

After that, it takes him longer than it should have to realise the feelings have stopped.

His coffee cup’s empty, as is the bottle of rum, and his cock is still stubbornly half-hard.

He does another one and a half Sudokus before he can bear the idea of showing his face again.

When Athos finally does summon up the courage to leave his room, he finds Aramis in the kitchen, humming tunelessly to himself as he goes through the cupboards, wearing a pair of well-worn grey tracksuit trousers and _still no fucking shirt, it’s November and the heating’s not even on, is he insane?_ Athos thinks, furious for a moment – which he’s sure Aramis must be able to feel – and he doesn’t know what the fuck’s about to come out of his mouth when Aramis turns to him and says brightly, “Breakfast?”

“Please,” Athos finds himself replying, the painfully British desire not to make a scene coming out on top, as usual; and he’s half way through making Aramis’ coffee just for something to do when he realises that might be taken as some sign of approval of Aramis’ earlier actions, and considers throwing it right down the sink again, except even he’s not that petty. He’s trying as hard as he can just to keep his head down and not absolutely radiate awkwardness but it’s only making his headache worse, and he reasons somewhat desperately that if he refuses to acknowledge what happened then it might as well never have happened at all… right?

He finishes making Aramis’ coffee, and deliberately gives him one and a half sugars instead of the usual two, in some sort of pathetic fucking silent resistance; and he sort of wants to laugh and probably wants to cry and _definitely_ wants to punch Aramis in the face a little bit – and he nearly chokes on his own tongue in shock when he realises that he hasn’t felt so much of _anything_ in years as he has since Aramis has been in his life.

Instead of doing any of those things, he showers, and consoles himself by thinking about what a fine fucking mess the world would be in if everybody in it had so little self control as his apparent ‘soul mate’.

After that, breakfast goes better than expected, mostly because Athos has decided that the best way to deal with this morning’s incident is all-out denial; and so he’s feeling surprisingly calm when Aramis looks up from his tinned fruit (Athos didn’t even know he _had_ tinned fruit) and asks, “So, are you feeling better this morning?”

Athos blinks in confusion – before remembering that normal people generally ask other people how they’re feeling, without being afraid of the answer. “I’m – yes. Thank you.”

He’s expecting Aramis to pick up the conversation, and is surprised when he doesn’t; and is even more surprised when he finds himself volunteering, “I think everything caught up with me a bit. To be frank… the last few days have been somewhat hard work.”

If what he wants is for Aramis to slowly cure himself of any fanciful notions of a grand romance between them, Athos supposes that he needs to start letting Aramis down gently, hopefully so gently that he doesn’t even notice it happening.

Even if that means revealing a little of himself – well. He supposes he’s taking one for the team, as Porthos would say. He’s starting to accept that he and Aramis are stuck with each other, and that this’ll be the best thing for both of them in the long run.

“Fair enough,” Aramis replies with a smile, “I’d figured you were an introvert” – and at Athos’ no doubt bemused expression, his smile only widens. “Well, it’s obvious really. Since I’ve been here, you haven’t mentioned anybody you’d like me to meet, or who would like to meet me, and that list of hobbies you gave me yesterday, none of them involved other people. So I’m not surprised you needed some alone time. And I don’t mind at all if you tell me to shove off occasionally so you can have a bit of peace and quiet – God knows my mother always has.”

“Alright then,” Athos replies, tentatively mirroring Aramis’ smile. He’s not quite sure what’s just happened, why Aramis seems to have taken it all in his stride; although it can only be a good thing if he can be upfront about just needing to be alone sometimes.

He wonders if it’s Aramis’ way of apologising for this morning – and immediately wishes he hasn’t, because he is not thinking about that because it _did not happen_.

Aramis doesn’t seem to have noticed Athos’ sudden discomfort, however, as he continues on just as cheerfully. “If you’ve not got anything planned, I’d like to pop over and see my old housemates today? Well, d’Artagnan will be at work, but Constance is off today and I know she gets bored.” He grins boyishly. “And it’ll be a nice chance for you to let someone else keep me entertained for a bit.”

Athos weighs the offer up swiftly in his head: people he doesn’t know, yes; but he’s established that Aramis thrives on human contact, and if he’s stuck with no-one but Athos day in, day out, then he’s going to get bored and Athos is going to get annoyed and they’re quickly going to start resenting each other.

The old housemate it is, then.

“That sounds nice,” he replies. “And I didn’t have any plans.”

Aramis beams, a flush of warmth running through Athos’ mind with it; and he nearly grins back before remembering that he’s still supposed to be being annoyed, and settles for just nearly-choking on a mouthful of toast.

Based on the state of Aramis’ house on his previous visit, Athos was rather expecting to spend the afternoon with what essentially amounted to two versions of Aramis – but though the open plan living room/kitchen is almost as cluttered-looking as before, Constance herself is a pleasant surprise, shaking Athos’ hand with a firm grip and a cool, calm demeanour that endears her to him instantly.

As she moves a pile of fabric off the sofa to give them a space to sit, Aramis flashes Athos a grin as if to say, _see? I knew you’d like her._

She apologises immediately for the mess – “I’ve got not enough space and far too many projects for my own good” – and makes them both drinks that they have to balance on their laps, the coffee table being full of what looks to Athos’ inexpert eyes like a half-finished dress.

She and Aramis chat for a while about Constance’s boyfriend and a couple of mutual acquaintances, and something to do with her office politics that Athos doesn’t really follow – but he’s content to just sit and wrap his hands around his mug, soaking up the warmth as he watches her pinning and marking cloth with a piece of chalk, the movements so calming as to be almost hypnotic. It’s nice to just… _be_ , without any expectations laid at his door, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find he actually feels good here.

He looks up when Aramis lays a hand on his knee. “I’m just going to go and sort through some more stuff to bring back with me, give Constance a chance to interrogate you.” He winks broadly, before getting up and disappearing into what Athos supposes is now his former bedroom.

He turns to Constance, wondering if he should be alarmed by the sudden turn of events – but she’s looking at him levelly, and he can’t help feeling at ease, the fact that she has no expectations of him probably helping a fair bit.

“So, half a week with Aramis. How are you coping?” she asks, with a twist of the mouth. “Between us, of course.”

“Fine! Well. It’s – been an adjustment,” Athos finds himself confessing, even though he doesn’t know her at all. “I mean, I didn’t even know I was bond positive, for a start.”

Is it his imagination, or does Constance wince slightly at that? “Yeah, he told me,” she replies sympathetically. “And speaking as someone negative, I wouldn’t appreciate having my entire life turned on its head like that. I mean, what if you’d been with someone already, for a start?”

He hadn’t thought of that, Athos realises, the idea of someone wanting to be with him without the bond to trap them there a thoroughly alien one.

“Yes, it was definitely a shock,” he replies, with a flush of relief; suddenly glad to talk about all of this to someone who isn’t Aramis. Someone who’s entirely outside of what he’s experiencing, who has no stake in whatever he might think or feel. “It’s a pretty intense experience. And he –” he hesitates, but Constance is looking at him with no judgement in her face, and he’s sure it will be valuable to talk to someone who’s known Aramis for many years – “he seems to just take everything in his stride.”

“Yeah,” Constance nods in recognition, “he’s always been a hopeless romantic. I’d bet any money he thinks any problems will work themselves out just by virtue of you two being bonded. You may well have your work cut out for you keeping his feet on the ground.”

“Yes, I’d suspected as much.”

It’s a relief, actually, to have his suspicions confirmed by someone who knows Aramis better than he does; it means he can bear it in mind, and act accordingly.

“But he’s also the easiest person to love I think I’ve ever met,” Constance replies, a sudden fond smile lighting up her face, “and I include my own in that. He’s got so much to give, and it’s clear he adores you already.”

 _No, come on_ , Athos thinks, Constance’s words suddenly ringing false in his ears. They’ve been here all of an hour, what can she even have seen – no, she can’t possibly be right. He wouldn’t adore himself were he in Aramis’ position, far from it; what has he even done in the last few days that might endear Aramis to him?

“But if it were me, I’d definitely find it a bit overwhelming,” Constance finishes, with a look that suggests she knows exactly what Athos is thinking; and though he’s not quite sure she does, he finds he appreciates the gesture, at least.

“Why do you think I brought him over here?” Athos deadpans, and glows a little inside when he makes her laugh.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” he asks – finding that unusually for new people, he’s genuinely curious.

“Well, I suppose it was professionally. My _boyfriend_ ,” Constance says, in a tone that manages to convey equal amounts of affection and exasperation, “was out on the lash with his fencing group, got blind drunk and managed to twist his ankle falling over a garden gnome. Aramis was doing his A&E rotation at the time. I got a text telling me to come to the hospital and there they were, having a spirited argument about the best places to go out. D’Artagnan was calling Aramis an old man and Aramis was asking him if he was even old enough to drink, and they’ve been terrible influences on each other ever since. You’ll get used to that, by the way – that feeling that you’re sometimes more of a babysitter than a partner.”

Fortunately Athos is saved from having to reply by Aramis’ reappearance, as he emerges from the bedroom at that moment with two very full-looking bags for life. “Do I feel my ears burning?”

“Always, darling,” Constance replies, entirely unconcerned. “Anyway, Athos, you two should definitely come for dinner some time soon. Aramis and d’Artagnan can keep each other entertained while we bond over their respective shortcomings.”

“Or as I like to think of it, our unique charm,” Aramis quips, leaning round the back of the armchair to press a sloppy kiss to Constance’s cheek, that would have horrified Athos’ mother; at which she pretends to look disgusted, but actually does a terrible job at hiding her clear affection for him.

“I’d like that,” Athos says, surprising himself with how much he means it. He feels comfortable with Constance, he decides, in a way he doesn’t with many people. He can tell she’s a practical woman, and wouldn’t be immediately offended on Aramis’ behalf when things don’t work out the way he’s come to understand that Aramis expects them to.

While he’s loath to get ahead of himself, he’s starting to think that perhaps this whole soul bond business might actually work out okay.


	8. Chapter 8

Athos dreams himself in his father’s study, sat in the high-backed leather chair as he used to do as a child, and later as an adult. He’s an adult now, he knows that instinctively, but his feet are still swinging a few inches off the ground; and Anne’s sitting on the edge of the desk in front of him, poised and elegant as always, with her legs crossed and her short dress riding up to flash a hint of stocking top, the memory of Athos’ own lust souring in his stomach, making him nauseous.

On her face is the same expression of haughty, disdainful cruelty she wore that morning she left; when she told him that he was pathetic and that he’d squandered every chance she’d given him to redeem himself, that she’d no doubt do better with the younger brother than the older.

She glances over at the far corner of the room, and as Athos turns his head to follow her gaze he fully expects to see Tom there, silently observing – but instead it’s Aramis, who’s wide-eyed and backed up against the wall, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.

Anne’s eyes flick disinterestedly over Aramis as if he’s barely worth noting, before turning back to Athos. “What _have_ you done now, hmm?” she purrs, as if she finds the whole thing terribly amusing. “You know, I actually find myself feeling sorry for this one. I managed to get away, at least, whereas he’s stuck with you.”

As Athos stares mutely into the cold green eyes that he used to find so beautiful, he realises he can feel Aramis in his mind still – and he knows that the interwoven threads of fear and frustration coming through to him means that Aramis wants him to fight back, to stand up to her and say that she’s wrong, that he and Aramis can still build something good together.

Aramis is a fool.

There’s no fighting Anne. She won long ago.

“I’ve got to admit though, he’s really rather pretty,” Anne says, giving Aramis an appreciative look up and down that fills Athos with a swirling mixture of rage and helplessness at the idea of her going anywhere near him. “Very nice hands, in particular. I bet they’d feel good against your skin, wouldn’t they, darling? I’m sure he’d know exactly how to touch you.”

As soon as she says the words Athos can’t help seeing it in his mind, in explicit detail; and he screws his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of arousal, knowing he’s giving away his weakness but not being able to help it – he can’t look at her while she says those things, can’t bear to see the mockery in her eyes as she laughs at his shame.

“Oh, you _do_ like that,” she murmurs, “you’ve become quite the pervert in my absence” – and even with his eyes closed Athos can see every detail of her expression as clearly as if they were wide open, because there’s no hiding from her, there never has been.

“Don’t worry, though,” she stage-whispers, her expression conspiratorial, “I’m sure he’ll give up on you long before you get to that point.”

Athos can only stare at her, his tongue useless in his mouth as he thinks, _I can only hope so, for his sake –_ and then, _I’m dreaming, I can wake up, I can stop this._

“Sure, you can wake up,” Anne agrees, reaching out to scratch down his cheek with one manicured fingernail, a parody of tenderness. “But don’t ever expect it to stop.”

Athos wakes up gasping, hand scrubbing furiously at his cheek where he can still feel her touch.

 _She’s gone_ , he tells himself firmly. _She’s gone, and she’ll never come back._

It doesn’t work.

In his heart he knows that even though she’s gone for good, she’s left too much of herself behind with him for him to ever be free.

He should have seen this coming after yesterday, he realises, far too late. He _enjoyed_ himself yesterday, for God’s sake, what made him think he had any right –

He knows, logically, that it’s the depression talking. The second therapist he tried always used to say exactly that: that it was the depression and not him, which when he had the energy for it, annoyed him no end. If he’s depressed, then the depression _is_ him, surely by definition.

No, there’s nothing else to blame, no outside force at work: it’s only him who’s reminding himself that he taints everything he touches. That he made the woman he loved despise him, and that he’ll do the same to Aramis too.

He can’t stop seeing the expression on Constance’s face as she told him, _he adores you._

He scoffs. It’s ridiculous. Unbelievable. Not even someone as trusting, as invested in the many myths of soul bonds as Aramis is could be delusional enough to look at Athos and see there the man he wants to fall in love with.

He’s torn between desperately wanting to hide all the evidence of what a wreck of a human being he is – for the sake of nothing more than his own stupid pride – and the slowly-growing conviction that the more Aramis learns about him now the better, before Athos can trick him into any further affection.

He freezes at the knock on his bedroom door.

Aramis must have felt it all, he realises, with a growing sense of horror, of shame. All Athos’ self-loathing, his weakness, the hopelessness that he’s too exhausted even to try and hide any more, never mind that it’s already too late.

He knows that the best thing for Aramis would be for him just to go, to walk out of Athos’ life and never return; but as soon as it occurs to him, the idea of it fills him with a fresh wave of dread at the idea of being alone again.

It’s been less than a week and his resolve has already weakened to the point where he’s dependent on another person once again.

 _I’m pathetic_.

“Athos?”

Another knock at the door.

He may be pathetic, but even he is strong enough… not to tell Aramis _everything_ – he couldn’t bear that – but at least to not pretend there might be anything about him that’s worth loving.

Or perhaps he’s not strong at all, but just too weak to resist the inevitable any longer. Thinking about it isn’t giving him any answers, only a headache.

Mind made up, he calls out, “Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“Alright.”

Aramis opens the door inch by inch, bringing the light from the living room with him, and Athos can’t help it, he’s hit with a fresh wave of shame over how it must look: him lying here in the darkness, the room like a bomb site, and the empty bottle of rum that he realises with a spike of panic is still on his bedside table – and he makes an abortive attempt to wall off his mind but he’s exhausted in seconds, and so he just gives up, turning his face to the ceiling and closing his eyes.

“Shall I turn the light on?”

“Please don’t.”

He doesn’t think he could bear to be looked at like this.

“Alright,” Aramis replies evenly, as Athos feels the mattress shift beside him; and he almost thinks Aramis isn’t going to say anything else, that he’s waiting for Athos to speak until he finally clears his throat.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s on Athos’ lips to say _no_ for a moment, before he remembers his resolve; and as awful as it’s going to be, he does need to do this.

“Just a bad dream,” he replies flatly, shifting properly onto his back.

There’s no need to go into exactly what his dream was _about_ ; after all, he wants to put Aramis off gently, not send him running for the hills.

“And how can I help?”

 _Get out_ , Athos thinks, _save yourself_.

“I’ll be alright,” he lies instead; convincing exactly nobody, and wondering why he’s even bothering.

Oh, that’s right – because the truth is significantly harder to bear.

“Maybe there’s something I can get you, then. A drink, maybe – water, coffee,” Aramis says carefully, “or something stronger?”

If Aramis needed any confirmation that Athos’ silence hasn’t already given him, then his immediate, bone-deep yearning for the particular numbness, the temporary respite from his own emotions that only alcohol provides, would surely have given him away.

Just on the off chance, he still asks, “What makes you say that?”

Aramis sighs, cutting through the thick silence of the room. “Athos. You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Athos doesn’t reply, not wanting to point out that that was exactly what he’d been hoping.

“Okay, let’s see. Tuesday night, you took half a bottle of rum to bed with you. It’s Saturday now, and there’s an empty bottle here. You didn’t put one back – I did check – so I think it’s reasonable to assume this is the same one. And I’ve not seen you drink any of it. Plus, I can feel you craving something. I thought it was hunger at first – but it’s not, is it?”

“No,” Athos whispers.

Even he can admit when he’s defeated.

“Okay.” In the dark, Aramis’ hand reaches out to find Athos’ shoulder beneath the duvet, and squeezes gently. “We can worry about the long-term later, but for now, I don’t want you being in pain like this because you don’t want me to see you drinking. Can we agree on that?”

“Yes.”

It is a relief to have it taken out of his hands, at least.

“Good man.” Aramis’ thumb brushes against Athos’ neck, just over the collar of his T-shirt, and he can’t help stiffening despite the immediate rush of warmth spreading through his body. “Now, what can I get you?”

“Irish coffee, please,” Athos mumbles, because even he can tell when a ship’s already sailed.

When Aramis comes back a few minutes later, it’s with two coffees and a pint glass of water, balanced somewhat precariously on one of Athos’ chopping boards. He’s silhouetted against the open door, and Athos can hear the smile in his voice. “I couldn’t find a tray. Do me a favour and click that light on a little?”

Athos obediently puts his bedside light on low and then manoeuvres himself up into a sitting position, eyeing Aramis warily as he walks around the bed and puts one of the coffees and the glass of water on his bedside table. “There’s Irish in your coffee, but I want you to drink all of this too,” he says, in what Athos thinks is probably his nurse’s voice. “In my experience, most people tend to be dehydrated.”

Athos picks up the coffee and takes a careful sip, trying hard not to feel too great a relief at finally getting both caffeine and alcohol back in his system; and he’s just having a gulp of water as instructed when Aramis suddenly gets back onto the bed beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I didn’t want to stand around forever,” Aramis replies, as if it should be obvious. “I’m going to drink my coffee, and I’d like you to have a think, and then tell me what you’d like to do today. The thing you’d like most of all, doesn’t matter what it is.”

 _Oh hell_ , Athos thinks, slumping back against the headboard. On days like this – on his bad days – there’s never anything at all he wants to do except to not have to exist, at least for a bit. Or failing that, to sleep until he feels marginally better, which is almost equally unrealistic.

Aramis did ask what he _most_ wants to do though, which is very much a relative thing, and doesn’t require him to actually want anything at all.

And if he chooses to parse that as ‘what actually seems achievable’, then he has his answer pretty quickly.

“Stay in bed all day and get horrendously drunk.”

To Aramis’ credit, Athos feels barely a waver through the link before Aramis replies cheerfully, “Excellent, then that’s what we’ll do. Though I do want to make us breakfast in bed before we get going, if that’s alright. I don’t have quite the iron liver I used to any more.”

“Sounds good,” Athos replies, making the effort to sound a little enthusiastic. He’ll eat if food’s put in front of him, though he can’t imagine managing to summon up the energy to take care of it himself.

He was mostly expecting toast and cereal, but to his surprise, Aramis makes the effort of cooking them what’s almost a full fry-up – though it’s definitely the first fry-up Athos has ever seen served with a glass of red wine.

“We’re out of eggs, among other things,” Aramis informs him, as he makes himself comfortable on top of the duvet, balancing his full plate carefully on his lap. “Though I might try going to the supermarket tomorrow, to see if the bond holds. I’m supposed to be back at work on Monday, so it’ll be good to know if I’m likely to make it through a shift without giving both of us a splitting headache.”

“Hopefully,” Athos offers. “I’m sure there are plenty of angel-faced children who need you.”

 _I need you_ , he thinks unbidden, and immediately wants to punch himself in the eye for being so desperate. It’s been four days – five? – and this is what he’s been reduced to already.

Aramis scoffs. “Little horrors, most of them,” he replies; but with a smile that suggests he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Athos makes himself hum his agreement; but reminds himself sternly that the plan is still to gently persuade Aramis he’d be better off with someone else. Someone likeable and interesting and emotionally healthy, who has something to offer him in return.

The plan is absolutely _not_ for him to become hopelessly attached to Aramis for showing him the slightest bit of kindness. It would still never work out, even if Athos decided he wanted it to.

Okay, they have to stick together because of the bond, so they can be friends. Friends is fine; Athos has friends. He has Porthos – or at least, he thinks he still does. After what he’s done to him, he’d expect anyone else to have given up on him entirely, but based on the years of shit that Porthos has stuck with him through already, objectively speaking even Athos has to admit that this won’t be enough to get shot of him.

Yes, Athos can have friends, he’s been grudgingly forced to accept that in the face of overwhelming evidence – but any kind of relationship is another question entirely. People forgive all sorts in their friends. They forgive depression, anxiety, alcoholism, and every label any of his therapists have ever used.

 _Love_ , however…

No, he can’t believe it. It would be a catastrophe, and it’s better for everyone concerned if he gets any fanciful ideas about _that_ out of his head before they take root there, and he ends up silently heartbroken when it becomes clear that Aramis doesn’t want him like that after all.

He jumps when Aramis taps him on the head.

“Psst. Earth to Athos,” he grins, leaving his fingers pressed against Athos’ left temple for a few moments too long; and through the rush of hormones enveloping him in a fresh blanket of warmth, Athos almost blurts out, _that’s where I feel you._

Instead he says, “I hope you brought the bottle.”

“O ye of little faith,” Aramis replies, holding up the bottle for Athos to see; and as he offers over his glass for a refill, he can’t help thinking, _I am so fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos believes that the way Anne treated him was his fault - and he’s wrong. If you are in an abusive relationship, _it is not your fault_. [Please consider getting help](http://www.loveisrespect.org/).


	9. Chapter 9

“Why don’t we ask each other questions,” Aramis proposes, half way through their third glass of wine. “Nothing high stakes – I’m thinking favourite colour, what you’d do if you found a wallet on the street, that sort of shit. Sound good?”

“Alright,” Athos replies cautiously. The idea sounds fairly innocuous, at least; and he concedes it’s a better way to pass the time than either drinking in silence or trying to avoid any of the elephants in the room, of which he’s counting at least three. “And if we don’t want to answer?”

“Then we just say ‘pass’, and it need never be mentioned again,” Aramis answers lightly. “I do this with my patients sometimes, it’s surprisingly good fun.”

“Do you want to start, then?”

“Sure. We should both answer each question, as well.” Aramis swirls the wine in his glass consideringly. “So… least favourite household chore.”

“That’s cheery,” Athos comments – though he’s hardly laugh a minute himself now, is he? “Putting the bin out.”

“Even though it takes all of about two minutes?”

“Well, it’s normally cold outside,” Athos points out, “so you have to put on all this extra clothing just to do something that takes two minutes. The time to effort ratio’s ridiculous. And then you get back inside thinking you’re done, and the first time you go to throw something away you realise you’ve forgotten to put a new bin bag in. It’s just annoying.”

“Well, alright then,” Aramis smiles into his drink, and Athos rolls his eyes. He hadn’t realised they were playing ask a question and then criticise the answer, though he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t particularly care. “Mine’s vacuuming. Though I do sometimes pretend I’m Freddie Mercury in the _I Want to Break Free_ video to liven it up a little.”

Athos’ lip twitches, he can’t help it. “Do you dress up?”

“Well, I haven’t yet. But if you play your cards right.” Aramis chuckles. “Your turn.”

“Hmm…” Athos frowns. Of course his mind goes completely blank the moment he tries to think of something he’d be interested to know about Aramis that he wouldn’t mind Aramis knowing about him; but he eventually manages to come up with, “Favourite subject at school.”

“Biology,” Aramis replies immediately. “Difficult as hell, but _fascinating_. Hence the career choice. You?”

“French,” Athos replies, “at least, before my teacher knew I was fluent.” At Aramis’ raised eyebrow, he elaborates, “We spoke French at home. I used to make deliberate mistakes in my essays so that Monsieur wouldn’t catch on. Which worked fine until my parents went to parents’ evening and told him in perfect French that they didn’t understand why I was being made to take the class in the first place. After that, Monsieur got his own back by entering me for the A-Level at age thirteen, and having me moved to Ancient Greek so I had to do the past papers in my spare time.”

Aramis laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Oh, that’s fantastic. Were you a little smart arse, then?”

“I had my moments, yes. Your question.”

“Following on from our earlier discussion,” Aramis pauses dramatically, “ever dressed in drag?”

“Once.” Athos can’t help wincing. “Fresher’s week. The less said the better. You?”

“Far too often. I’m a sucker for a fancy dress party.”

As long as Aramis isn’t expecting him to go along, Athos decides. He’s not sure parties are his thing, let alone fancy dress. “Favourite food?”

“My mother’s cooking, of course. She does a mean paella. And yours?”

“A really good roast dinner.”

“Traditional. I like it.” Aramis nods his approval. “Would you… like to be famous?”

Athos can’t help wincing. “ _God_ , no. I can’t imagine anything worse. You’d never be able to go anywhere.”

“You’d have to grow an even bigger beard to stop them recognising you,” Aramis teases. “I don’t know, actually. I’d enjoy the adulation, I’ll admit that. Though it might get tiring to end up with my picture in the paper every time I go down the shops.”

“Alright.” It’s becoming more and more of an effort to think of something original. “A hidden talent?”

Aramis winks.

Athos rolls his eyes to try and hide his sudden embarrassment. He’s not even going to _start_ thinking about that. “Seriously.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” Aramis replies with a grin. But if you’re disallowing my answer, then I’d have to fall back on… I can juggle almost anything. And yours?”

“I have a very good memory.”

“Oh wow, that must be fantastic,” Aramis enthuses. “Photographic, or?”

“There’s actually no evidence that a true photographic memory exists – but mine works pretty well. And it’s a mixed blessing, to be honest,” Athos finds himself admitting.

There are certainly things he remembers that he’d be happier forgetting.

“And I can’t remember what I did last week,” Aramis smiles, and Athos feels a wave of relief at the fact that he’s chosen not to pry. “My turn, isn’t it? Imagine you’re stranded on a desert island. Do you bother wearing clothes?”

Athos snorts in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Hey, no question shaming,” Aramis shoots back. “Your answer, sir. And pass your glass over, I’m making the executive decision to open another bottle.”

“Alright then,” Athos replies, repressing a smile. “I’m assuming it’s reasonably warm. So, while I think I’d find it a bit weird at first, I probably wouldn’t bother. I’m assuming I wouldn’t have a washing machine.” He squints at Aramis as he takes his newly-full glass. “And I’m assuming you wouldn’t either, based on your having thought of the question in the first place.”

“Not a chance,” Aramis replies cheerfully. “Gotta give the marine life something to brighten their day. Okay, your go.”

“Do I have to?” Athos sighs. “I’m having trouble coming up with anything good.”

“Ask me a crap question, then,” Aramis counters. “There are no points for originality, only for participation.”

“Alright then. Favourite alcoholic drink.”

“See? That’s a fine question, and one that’s very important to me. Raspberry colada.”

Athos frowns. “Is that like a piña colada?”

“Yes, but with raspberry instead of pineapple. But if I’m in a pub, I’ve been known to settle for a rum and coke.”

“Of course you have,” Athos mutters, slightly louder than he meant to – and nearly laughs out loud when Aramis sticks his tongue out at him, because the whole thing’s so _ridiculous_ , they’re in his bed getting drunk and asking each other about their favourite things and it can’t even be noon yet.

“What?”

“Nothing.” This time Athos does feel himself smile properly. “And my favourite drink is a good red wine.”

“Is this a good red wine?” Aramis asks, holding up his glass.

“Oh, no. _This_ is a wine for getting drunk on. I’m not showing you where I keep the good ones.”

“As long as you promise to give me a guided tour some time,” Aramis winks. “Right… if you could have one super power, what would it be?”

Athos half-expects this question to be a difficult one – he’s never read a comic that he can remember – but he feels his mood come crashing down as the answer forms immediately in his mind, clear as day. “The power to go back and fix my mistakes,” he replies, voice subdued. “Another chance, if you will.”

Aramis’ hand reaches across to curl over his around the stem of his wine glass, and Athos can’t help closing his eyes as that wonderful feeling rushes through him, strengthening and calming, keeping his memories at bay. He vaguely remembers he wasn’t supposed to be trusting these feelings, but he can feel himself getting fuzzy-headed and it’s difficult to care. He supposes that since he’s as weak as he is, it’s only to be expected that he would cave sooner or later.

“Mine’d be healing,” Aramis says, so quietly Athos almost misses it. “As tempting as it is to choose something for myself… I see far too much pain. And the kids are the worst. I mean, nobody deserves it, but… yeah. God, it’s a good thing we’ve got this –” he brushes his fingers along the back of Athos’ hand, sending what feels like sparks dancing in his wake – “or I’d have thoroughly depressed myself.”

“Good thing indeed,” Athos agrees, a little breathlessly.

It had never occurred to him that Aramis might actually need something from him.

He takes a deep drink before asking the first thing that comes into his head. “What would be your perfect day?”

“Oh, I like it,” Aramis replies appreciatively. “Let me think. Sleepy morning sex, a good breakfast, then I’d spend it with my family and – someone I love. My mother would make her paella. And then in the evening I’d go out with everyone I know, drinking, tapas, dancing, but come back home in time for clumsy yet affectionate drunken sex. And yours?”

_Fuck,_ Athos thinks, with just a small edge of panic. He shouldn’t have asked this. He doesn’t do _perfect_ anything; even a good day’s been a tall enough order in the last few years.

“Hey.” A hand squeezes his shoulder, and he looks over into Aramis’ concerned eyes. “You know, it doesn’t have to be elaborate. Just… whatever would make you happy.”

“Alright,” Athos replies, taking a deep breath. He can do this. Just… one thing at a time. “The good wine, then. Watching the rain outside. A favourite novel. Being… content.”

“Is anyone else there? Or just you?”

When Athos doesn’t answer, Aramis squeezes his shoulder again, rubbing gently back and forth with his thumb. “Alright. My turn. I’d like you to come up with three things that you think the two of us have in common. And nothing crap, like we’re both sitting on this bed. I mean character traits.”

“Wow. Okay. I take it you don’t do this one with your kids,” Athos replies – and while he’s grateful to have some semblance of normality restored to the conversation, this is going to be a _difficult_ question to answer, especially since all his first instincts are telling him that Aramis is somebody with whom he has very little in common.

He’s extroverted, spontaneous, emotionally open… all the things that Athos is not.

Strangely enough, it’s that thought that gives him his first clue.

“I think we’re both… opinionated. Stubborn, even,” Athos replies, thinking of the persistence of Aramis’ belief in their bond being his fairytale happily-ever-after. “Old enough to be somewhat set in our ways.”

“That only counts as one, not three.”

“Shut up, I’m still thinking,” Athos replies immediately, holding his glass out for another top-up. “Not heterosexual, apparently. And –” he hesitates, but decides to take the risk, “I think we’re both… unfinished. Maybe there have been setbacks, maybe things haven’t worked out the way we expected.” It’s the closest he thinks he can get to an acknowledgement that as patient as Aramis has been, Athos must have been something of a disappointment to him. “My point is… we’re still getting there.”

Aramis is silent for a moment; and Athos is just on the verge of worrying that he’s said something ridiculous when he feels a flush of warmth through the bond, before Aramis leans in and presses his lips lightly against Athos’ temple.

“Wow. I thought there was a lot going on behind that quiet exterior, but that’s… almost scarily perceptive,” Aramis replies gently, and though Athos can’t quite bring himself to look at him, he can hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t know how I’m going to top that, but I’ll happily embarrass myself trying. So… number one, we’re both the kind of person that Porthos likes, which speaks highly of us both. Number two, I think we’re both homebodies. I mean, I like to go out and party, but afterwards I just want to come back and curl up in the place I feel most comfortable. And finally… even though I tend to take the plunge far too quickly and you’re clearly more the cautious type, I think we both have a lot to give.”

Still reeling from the kiss to his forehead, being told he has a lot to give when his entire modus operandi for the past week’s been hinging on exactly the opposite of that is just a bit too much to deal with – and Athos drains his glass, putting it down on the bedside table with slightly more force than he means to.

He feels the panic start to clench in his chest, but even as he tenses and waits for it to come, tries to breathe deeply, it never quite hits; and he supposes he’s had enough wine to kill it (not that that normally works), or he’s just managed to detach himself enough from his own emotions that even the complete mess this has become has stopped really mattering.

It seems like he leans into the touch of Aramis’ hand on his forehead before it’s even there, and it’s _wonderful_ , isn’t it, all that warmth and love flowing through him; and it’s strange the way he feels a bone-deep peace rising up in him from where it’s been long buried, a peace that he’d thought was gone for good.

“Alright?” Aramis murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding very close to Athos’ ear. “Maybe we should lie down for a bit.”

“Okay,” Athos agrees, sliding himself clumsily back down beneath the duvet; and Aramis lies down beside him, pulling both their pillows down with them and tucking Athos’ beneath his head.

Their faces are just inches apart, and Athos is hit with a sudden, stupid urge to giggle.

The room spun a little when he lay down, though, so he supposes it’s not that surprising.

“Best and worst holiday choices,” he says.

“A fancy villa somewhere hot, in easy reach of both beaches and bars. And camping.”

Athos can feel himself grinning. “Mine’s a cabin in the woods. And also camping.”

“No camping in our future, then,” Aramis grins back; and Athos knows he’s noticed Aramis’ smile before, and his laughter lines, but this feels like the first time he’s really _seen_ them. He knew Aramis was good-looking, of course, because he’s got eyes, but he feels like it’s the first time he’s really seeing that too; and Aramis is warmth and comfort and something that feels a lot like home, and no doubt the logical extension of these thoughts is for Athos to close his eyes and lean in to kiss him.

Aramis stops him with a finger to his lips.

Blinking his eyes open again in confusion and not a little hurt, it’s on Athos’ lips to say _I thought this was what you wanted?_ when Aramis moves his hand around to cup Athos’ jaw, and says softly, “Not yet, okay? I _do_ want you, more than anything, but we’re both wasted right now and… I’m not sure you’re quite ready. I want you – I want both of us to be sure. Alright?”

“Alright,” Athos agrees, because what Aramis is saying makes sense, far more sense than what he’s doing (and he’ll probably regret it when he’s sobered up); and the part of his brain that still realises he should warn Aramis off says, “I’m a bad idea.”

“Hey,” Aramis replies sternly, “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Now come here, and let’s sleep it off a little, yeah?”

Aramis rolls onto his back, reaching out to pull Athos in and guide his head forward to rest on Aramis’ shoulder, his fingers threading through Athos’ hair; and Athos inhales the scent of him and lets his heavy eyelids fall shut, thinking fuzzily that he can worry about the rest of it when he wakes.


	10. Chapter 10

When Athos awakens, it’s dark again outside; and he blinks blearily at his alarm clock until the numbers come into focus, showing that it’s just after four in the afternoon.

He shifts a little, and discovers that the duvet’s pulled taut behind him.

He tenses, and carefully turns his head.

Aramis is asleep, lying on top of the duvet and facing Athos, mouth open and whistling very softly through his nose. His arm’s stretched out, fingers curling against Athos’ shoulder.

Athos twists his body away and sits carefully up, his body still moving slightly faster than his mind; he’s on the cusp between drunk and hung over, then, and he should still be able to put off the inevitable headache for a few hours if he has another drink.

He can’t help remembering everything that happened. 

The cuddling. The attempted kiss.

_I’m a bad idea._

He’s not going to think about this here, though; he needs to get out.

He gets slowly to his feet, pulls on the tracksuit trousers lying on the floor and walks out into the living room, closing the door softly behind him. He’s on autopilot as he pulls on his coat, takes the hip flask out of the pocket and fills it with some awful own brand blended whisky that he knows, really, he only drinks when he wants to punish himself, puts on the first pair of shoes he comes to. Keys, those are still in the lock. Phone… at least he managed to put it on to charge for once, though he doesn’t think he’s looked at it in days.

He checks the screen automatically. Nothing from Porthos – though Porthos is no doubt still angry with him, Athos reminds himself, and is probably expecting an apology. He should call him, he decides, will do as soon as he gets out of range.

It’s not been quite a week yet, but the bond _has_ to hold. He needs it to.

It’s freezing outside, the chilly air hitting him like a wall as he steps out into the street; but he forces himself onwards, and he can feel exactly the moment he gets far enough from the house that all awareness of Aramis drops from his mind like a flame that’s been extinguished. Ever since they met, Athos has been able to feel Aramis’ presence even when he’s sleeping, lying dormant in the corner of his mind – but for the first time it’s fallen entirely empty, and the feeling is so strange and so unpleasant for a moment that Athos almost turns back.

 _No_ , he tells himself firmly, forcing his feet onwards _._ He needs this, he reminds himself; it’s the only way he can have anything resembling privacy now, and he’ll just have to get used to it.

A few minutes later he reaches the nearest little park he knows, not much more than a couple of deserted benches and a switched-off water feature in the middle of a residential square, and sits down on the damp, chilly wood to make the call.

He holds his breath as Porthos’ phone rings, and swears under his breath when it goes through to voicemail.

“Porthos. It’s me. Athos.” _For fuck’s sake._ All humanity’s creativity and innovation, and people are still using voicemail. “Well. An apology hardly seems sufficient.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing he’d thought to have a drink first. “Perhaps we could meet.”

He pauses, but can’t for the life of him think what to say next; and so just hangs up, punching the disconnect call button with slightly more force than necessary.

 _Fucking voicemail,_ he thinks angrily; he hates the way it makes him sound, so awkward and formal and like he doesn’t actually care at all. _Fuck –_

He realises there are tears in his eyes.

 _Come on then, let’s just get this over with_ , he decides with grim acceptance as he begins to cry like a child, unscrewing the top from his hip flask with rapidly-numbing fingers and taking gulps of whisky between sobs.

He doesn’t think he’s cried like this since that first year after she left him and after Tom died, when even just living, being awake and conscious, seemed unbearably painful. Compared with that – and with the moments of overwhelming panic – the numbness that followed has always been a blessed relief.

He’d much, _much_ rather feel that everything is ultimately pointless and nothing holds any pleasure than end up shaking and terrified from the simple act of trying to return a library book, for example. He despises the lack of control, for one thing, never mind that the feeling itself is utterly ridiculous.

What have his wife’s betrayal and his brother’s death to do with a library book?

If he’s honest, he already knows the answer: that she made him weak, or rather, she brought out the weakness that was already in him. It wouldn’t have happened like this to another man.

 _She killed Tom, though,_ he reminds himself. _If you were stronger, maybe she’d have killed you instead._

He shrugs to himself, sniffs, and reaches into his pockets for a tissue. He’s starting to shake, but he thinks it’s from the cold, at least; he isn’t feeling particularly fearful.

While he’d always rather have died than lose his brother and live on as the person he’s become, he has mostly learned to accept that what’s happened has happened, that he can’t go back. It’s become background noise, at least, not a daily obsession.

A woman walks past, bundled up in a heavy red coat against the cold, fortunately not looking his way. He doesn’t want her to see him, would be happier if nobody ever saw him again. He already feels like a ghost among the living.

And now that someone finally has seen him, it’s all too much.

The shock of it, the intrusion. The constant low-level stress, not being free from him even when Aramis is sleeping. The weight of his expectations, that Athos can never hope to meet, and trying to figure out how on earth to break it to him. The knowledge that he will surely break Aramis’ heart in revealing to him that Athos’ own heart atrophied long ago, and is good for nothing at all.

The fact that despite all his instincts towards self-preservation, letting go of his iron grip on himself for just a few hours was enough for him to… fall, in some sense of the word, anyway. That despite all he knows, all he’s experienced in his life, just a little basic human kindness is enough to make him just as dependent as he was with her, as he swore he’d never be again.

He doesn’t know if it’s an effect of the bond, or if it’s all him – but it hardly matters. The bond _is_ him, or so Aramis keeps saying, and the end result is the same anyway. He can’t just blame ‘biology’, as if it’s some outside force acting upon him. No, the responsibility is his alone.

And the fact remains that it’s impossible, from every angle. He’s simply not cut out to love, nor is he someone who could be loved by another. And he couldn’t bear to feel that way again.

Better to be alone, and (almost) whole, than to have someone make him weak all over again.

This was never going to end well, he supposes, and now he just has to try and minimise the fallout.

His hands clench and unclench in his pockets.

 _God,_ it’s freezing out here. His feet feel like blocks of ice, and the tears on his face are making his cheeks smart as the wind whips over them. And his head’s starting to pound, though he has no idea if that’s the bond protesting or his no doubt deserved hangover finally catching up with him.

He doesn’t want to stay here, but he doesn’t want to go back just yet either.

He’ll go to the library, he decides, and get something out – they’re open till six. Perhaps they have something on soul bonds that’s a bit more rigorous and less wishy-washy, and he can at least do some good by figuring out the limits that he and Aramis will have to live with. Then they can both do their own thing, live their own lives as much as possible; and if it sometimes makes him a little wistful, well, he’s lived with far worse.

He wipes his eyes, blows his nose again, and gets to his feet.

When he arrives at the library, the woman behind the desk gives him a hard look as he enters. “We’re closing soon,” she says immediately, and he wonders for the first time what he looks like to her, whether he smells of drink. But they know each other by sight, at least, and she’s probably seen him look far worse in the past few years; and it’s that which gives him the confidence to nod in recognition and press on.

“I won’t be long,” he promises, before walking up the few stairs to the main library area and turning left for the ‘Self-help and relationships’ section. It’s one of the few parts of the library he’s always largely avoided, finding that self-help books mostly involve meaningless platitudes, and relationships no longer being his area.

The section on soul bonds is on the bottom shelf, and he crouches own to scan methodically along the spines of the book, twisting his head from side to side and wondering why after four hundred and fifty years of the printing press, they still haven’t got all the bloody spines facing the same way. It smells of industrial floor cleaner down here, and it’s starting to make him nauseous, and his head’s getting worse.

 _Come on_ , he thinks impatiently, he doesn’t want any of this how to strengthen your relationship with your soul mate rubbish, he wants popular science. _Hard_ science will do, even, just something about how soul bonds work in practical terms. It’s looking to him more and more like nobody even _wants_ to know these things, and the idea that the vast majority of bonded people just sleepwalk through life without even trying to understand what’s happened to them is equal parts infuriating and depressing.

Just when he’s about to give up, his eye catches on _Soul Bonds in Depth: Understanding your Psychic Link_ , and he decides it’ll do for now, he can feel the librarian glaring at his back already. If it’s complete shit then he’ll just have to get something on Amazon.

He takes it over to the desk, fumbling his membership card from his wallet and handing it over for scanning, whereupon she glares at him afresh.

“Mr de la Fère, _Empires of the World_ by Nicholas Ostler is still outstanding. And at this point, compensating us for its loss will work out cheaper than paying the late fees.”

“That’s fine. I’m not sure I know where it is,” Athos confesses.

“That’ll be sixteen pounds then,” the librarian replies, and he hands over a crumpled twenty, vaguely alarmed as his vision goes suddenly grey around the edges.

“Please consider the change a donation to the Library Fund,” he manages, taking the soul bond book from the desk the moment it’s been scanned and hurrying outside, back into the cold.

He feels slightly better when he gets outside, but not by much; and when he checks his phone he sees it’s a quarter to six, later than he’d thought.

 _Better get back then_ , he thinks, _before I get any worse_ – and that’s enough to trigger a fresh wave of self-loathing at the realisation that this is what he’s been reduced to, tethered to another person entirely against his will, and with no escape possible.

_God help the both of us._

He indulges himself right up to the corner of his street, where he pushes the feelings down and away just in time, nearly stumbling under the onslaught as he feels Aramis’ presence return behind his temple – a flash of panic that’s almost enough to send him spiralling anew, replaced just in time by a sharp stab of what’s not quite happiness but he identifies after a moment as _relief_ , coupled with the fading of his headache and nausea until there’s only the echo of a dull throb remaining behind his forehead.

When he opens the door to the flat Aramis is standing right behind it; and Athos realises belatedly that he must have locked him in.

“Athos, thank _God!_ ” Aramis exclaims, “I didn’t know what –”

Aramis raises his hands, reaching out; and with the desperation of a cornered animal, Athos thinks straight at him, _don’t touch me._

Aramis drops his hands.

“Well,” he says, in a voice that immediately loses all its warmth. “Next time please leave a note, at least.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it,” Athos replies as he takes off his coat and hangs it up, not looking at Aramis, suddenly exhausted.

He pretends not to notice the cautious once-over Aramis is giving him, or the clear worry coming through the bond; and finds he does appreciate it when Aramis doesn’t mention that Athos is wearing tracksuit trousers and brogues with no socks, or that he probably looks like he had a nervous breakdown while sleeping rough.

He’s starting to dread what Aramis _is_ going to say when Aramis’ phone starts ringing.

He fumbles it out of his pocket at lightning speed, swiping and holding it to his ear. “Hey,” he answers breathlessly, “no, he just got back,” looking straight at Athos. “Yes, please do.”

He holds out his phone. “It’s Porthos. He’d like to speak to you.”

For a moment, Athos considers refusing – but that would be ridiculous given he just called Porthos the same afternoon. Also, hearing whatever Porthos has to say is surely preferable to having a conversation with Aramis right now, the way Aramis is glaring at him.

He reaches out to take the phone, careful not to let their hands touch, and holds it to his ear. “Porthos,” he says levelly, walking over to the armchair and sitting down, starting to unlace his shoes with the other hand.

“ _Have you gone insane?!_ ”

“That entirely depends,” Athos replies acidly, “could you be a little more specific?”

He knows he shouldn’t be baiting Porthos – especially when he’s the one who has so much to apologise for – but he really doesn’t have the energy for this right now, and he just wants Porthos to shout at him and get it over with.

“ _I was at the gym_ ,” Porthos says, and Athos can hear the controlled fury in his voice all too well. “ _I had my phone on silent. And then I get home to find a cryptic voicemail from you and about five missed calls from Aramis, including one voicemail saying you’d done a runner and did I know where you might have gone._ ”

“I went to the library,” Athos replies, pressing the still-freezing heel of his hand against his forehead.

“ _Alright._ ” Porthos sighs heavily. “ _Here’s the thing. You have a soul mate now – which we’re definitely going to talk about later, don’t think you’ve got out of that conversation – and while it’s hardly my area of expertise, I do know that if he’s calling me in a panic asking where you’ve gone off to then there’s something you’re not doing right._ ”

“I had to –” Athos starts to say, pulling himself up short as he becomes aware of Aramis still in the room, staring unseeing out of the window  into the night.

“ _I’m sure you did_ ,” Porthos replies, with a little more of the gentleness that’s usual from him when handling Athos. “ _But you have to tell him where the hell you’re going. You have a responsibility to him now. Okay?_ ”

“Okay,” Athos agrees, shamefaced. Porthos is right, of course, and he’d been so wrapped up in himself that he hadn’t even thought of it.

“ _Good. Now, how’s about I come over and you can explain the rest of it to me?_ ”

“I’d prefer tomorrow,” Athos replies – the last thing he wants is to have this conversation in front of Aramis. “The café on Alexander Street?”

“ _Okay. About two alright?_ ”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

“ _Okay – and before you give Aramis his phone back, put your damn number in it, alright?_ ”

Porthos rings off, and Athos obediently enters his mobile number into Aramis’ phone and holds it out.

“My number. I should have given it to you before now.”

Aramis nods, and then shrugs, as he does something complicated with his phone. “I should probably have asked for it. I’ll call you so you’ve got mine.”

Athos listens to the sound of his phone ringing once, cutting through the thick silence – and somehow that’s enough to do it, to take him to the point where he knows he can’t bear to deal with this now, he simply doesn’t have the strength left.

“I’m going to go and lie down,” he mumbles, going into his bedroom and shutting the door without waiting for a response, collapsing on the near side of the bed as if all of his limbs have given up on him.

The pillow still smells of Aramis.

Athos just about manages to push up his mental walls before the tears start to flow once more.


	11. Chapter 11

_No rest for the wicked_ , Athos decides wearily, as Aramis knocks at his door again not twenty minutes later.

He has stopped crying again, at least.

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve before making himself get to his feet and actually go and open the door rather than just yelling in the right direction, mindful of the fact that not doing so last time was where at least a few of his current problems started.

“Hey,” Aramis says as the door opens – and Athos can feel his nervousness through the bond, can’t help the way his own insides tense up in response, and is torn between feeling horribly guilty for making Aramis afraid of him and wishing that Aramis would at least control himself a little better. “I was going to order takeaway, if you’re hungry?”

“Sure, there are menus on the notice board in the kitchen,” Athos replies, glad to be asked something he can actually answer, “and I’ve got cash, if you don’t mind calling. I’ll have anything that’s circled.”

“That’s very efficient of you,” Aramis smiles awkwardly. “Have you got a system?”

For a moment Athos sees himself as he was back then, as if through a stranger’s eyes: sat on one of the air beds that were his only furniture and staring at the bewildering number of choices laid out before him, as Porthos rubbed slow, calming circles against his back and told him that all he needed to do was pick a few things he knew he liked, mark them off with a pen, and Porthos would never ask him to choose again.

Back in the present, he replies, “Something like that.”

Aramis lets him lie down and pretend to sleep again until the food arrives, when Athos decides that eating in his room is pushing it too far even for him. So he takes a seat at the kitchen table, a plate and a pair of chopsticks, and divides his attention between chicken in ginger and spring onions, Szechuan beef, vermicelli noodles and steamed rice while wondering if Aramis has actually ordered every single thing he circled, because this looks to be enough to feed both of them for several days.

Athos has only just finished serving up when Aramis says, “I’m still angry with you for earlier.”

 _I know_ , Athos thinks about saying, he’s been feeling it thrumming beneath the surface ever since he came out of his room.

Instead he says, “Are you.”

He feels the anger rising behind his left temple a second before Aramis opens his mouth, no doubt to say something Athos fully deserves; and he uses that moment of warning to cut him off. “I apologise. I shouldn’t have gone out without letting you know, I realise that now. Porthos was also quite clear on the matter. Did I cause you any pain?”

“Pain?” Aramis frowns. “Oh, with the – well, I had a bit of a headache, but that was probably from the booze. Mostly I was just worried.”

“Well, you have my number now,” Athos replies awkwardly, trying to push down the shame that bubbles up at the realisation that he _has_ hurt Aramis – who’s clearly a good man, and who didn’t ask for this any more than he did.

“Actually, I was less worried about you being dead in a ditch somewhere and _more_ worried about the fact that you felt the need to run away from me.”

Looking away from the flint in Aramis’ eyes and down into his dinner, Athos can’t help feeling _caught_. He takes a breath, tries to stop his heart beating faster and his throat growing tight, closing his thoughts in on themselves and telling himself sternly that he needs to stay in control, that he can’t afford not to.

He jumps when Aramis reaches around the cartons of takeaway to put a hand on his arm.

“You know you can always talk to me, right? Whatever happens.”

 _No, I can’t,_ Athos thinks, looking up into those kind, trusting dark eyes, _because I can’t become dependent on you._

He shrugs, and says, “I went to the library. I – wanted some privacy.”

“I could help, if you let me,” Aramis insists, apparently ignoring what Athos has just said, his grip tightening on Athos’ arm. “I’m your _soul mate_.”

Athos pulls his arm away, suddenly riled. “And what, exactly, does that even mean?”

Aramis stares back, completely blankly. “Excuse me?”

“You keep saying ‘soul mate’” – Athos provides the air quotes for emphasis – “Iike it’s some kind of a – miracle cure. Like everything’s going to be perfect now that we’re bonded. When in fact, all I’ve learned in the past week has taught me that this is nothing more than what it is, which is a psychic link. We may be able to sense each other’s emotions – at the cost of our own autonomy – but that’s literally all it does. We weren’t _fated_ for each other. It’s as much as question of chance as anything else.”

Leaning back in his chair, Athos can see – and feel – that he’s landed a blow, and he grits his teeth and makes himself stay strong against the hurt coming through the bond. He’s not enjoying this at all, but it needs to happen.

“Okay. You’re just trying to piss me off so that I leave you to wallow in whatever’s going on in there,” Aramis replies defiantly. “Well, I can tell you now that it won’t work.”

It’s so ridiculous, Athos almost wants to laugh. “I promise you, I’m really not. You only have to look at the numbers. There are _seven billion_ people on this planet, approximately two per cent of whom are estimated to be bond positive. If there was just one person out there who was intended for you, it would take _multiple lifetimes_ to even stand a chance of meeting them, and yet almost everyone who’s positive forms a bond at some point in their lifetime. It’s nothing more than a question of compatibility. _Genetic_ compatibility.”

“Why would you say that?” Aramis asks, his expression one of betrayal – and Athos is torn between wanting to take it all back and banging his head against the table in frustration.

“Because it’s the _truth_ , for God’s sake!” he exclaims, the frustration winning out. “I don’t have an agenda. Look. Scientists estimate we meet an average of ten thousand people in our lifetime, which makes the chance of bonding with any one person one in ten thousand at the least. And with the current pace of advances in genome sequencing, I imagine we’ll know the exact numbers within a decade. They might even be able to predict who’ll bond with whom.”

“Well, I don’t care,” Aramis insists. Athos can tell he’s barely listened to the numbers, and wonders if it’s because he thinks Athos is trying to slip something past him or because he’s genuinely not interested in what’s happened to them both. “I mean, okay, you might be right. Maybe I would have bonded with someone else if we hadn’t met. But we _did_ meet. And we bonded, which makes you my soul mate. And you’ll just have to get used to it.” He leans back in his chair, folding his arms as if to say, _try me._

Athos doesn’t reply, just stabs at another piece of chicken. Aramis is right, he supposes. They’re not getting anywhere with this, and he doesn’t have the energy left to explain that getting used to it is exactly what he’s been trying to do all along.

“I’d say we could watch a film this evening, but the TV’s broken, isn’t it?”

The sudden change of subject catches Athos off guard, and it takes him a moment to find his wits again. “I’ve no idea what’s wrong with it, actually. It could even be a blown fuse. You’re welcome to have a look at it if you like. I was going to read, though.”

“Okay, but would you – stay out here, at least? Keep me company?”

“Alright,” Athos agrees, “though I can’t promise I’ll be any kind of company.”

“You’ll be here, won’t you?” Aramis retorts; and a little stung, Athos decides it’s not worth another attempt as he clearly can’t say anything right today, and they finish eating in silence.

After dinner, he brings his book out to the living room as promised, in an attempt to make amends for his general existence; and ignores the slight pang he feels behind his left temple when he goes to sit in his usual chair, rather than next to Aramis on the sofa. _It’s for the best if neither of us get too attached,_ he reminds himself firmly, cracking open the book and beginning by scanning through the introduction.

This book, at least, Athos decides as he reads, promises to be more informative and less wishy-washy than the soul bonds book that Aramis brought with him. While it appears to be arranged along the same lines, it delves far deeper into the scientific basis for how soul bonds function, which is what Athos wants to know about, rather than essentially being a specialised self-help book for bonded couples.

He skips the chapter on bond positivity and the initial forming of bonds – for now – and moves straight to the second chapter, ‘Formed bonds: Opportunities and limitations’:

‘ _A soul bond is the name we give to a psychic link between (usually) two individuals, which enables them to directly observe and experience each other’s emotional states’…_ Athos has heard this before, and he scans ahead until a line several paragraphs down catches his eye.

‘ _In order to maintain this link, bonded individuals are required to compromise some of the autonomy they had before bonding. They must maintain a base level of both physical proximity and of direct physical contact (which in most bonded couples, though not all, takes the form of sexual intercourse – see Chapter 5). This is popularly referred to as keeping the bond ‘healthy’._

_‘Insufficient physical proximity and/or contact has long been observed to cause headaches, listlessness, exhaustion and other related physical symptoms in bonded partners over the medium- to long-term. 1 Though exact requirements vary depending on the individuals in question, the landmark study by Claessens and Van den Bergh (1998) recommends a minimum of four hours’ close proximity and ten minutes’ direct physical contact per day as a general guideline.’_

Athos looks up from the book for a few moments, allowing the words some time to sink in.

_Ten minutes per day._

Ten minutes isn’t so bad. Ten minutes is nothing in relative terms, especially given how much time he spends doing nothing anyway. And though the idea of them sitting and holding hands for quarter of an hour every evening feels vaguely silly, Athos does realise he has a responsibility to Aramis to do his share in keeping him healthy.

He wonders for the first time if the way he’s been feeling recently is due to them neglecting the bond – or _him_ neglecting the bond, more accurately, because he can’t kid himself that Aramis wouldn’t happily climb into his lap and stay there indefinitely, given the choice.

He realises that Aramis is looking at him expectantly. “Anything worth sharing?”

“Yes, actually. It recommends a minimum of ten minutes’ direct physical contact per day to keep the bond healthy,” Athos summarises, as neutrally as he can.

“You should come and sit by me, then,” Aramis prompts with a barely-there smile – but Athos can feel his hope as if it were his own. “I reckon we must be at least an hour behind by now.”

Keeping his mind very firmly blank, Athos gets up from his chair and goes to sit next to Aramis on the sofa – who immediately puts his phone away and shifts over to lean against Athos’ side, tucking his feet up under him and resting his head on Athos’ shoulder, as Athos holds out a hand for him to take.

He would have expected this to be uncomfortable, when Aramis is easily as large as he is; but he just seems to make himself fit there, Athos thinks, before the thought’s followed immediately by a wave of anxiety as he realises that he’s in grave danger of getting used to this, managing to stir the familiar fear in his breast even over the warm calm of their contact.

It’s for the health of the bond, that’s all, not for _him_.

“Hey, hey.” Aramis squeezes his fingers; and Athos can’t help squeezing back, because he’s only getting weaker by the second, isn’t he? “Just relax, okay? It doesn’t work if you don’t relax.”

“It doesn’t say that in the book,” Athos replies – and he’s expecting Aramis to get annoyed again, and is surprised when all he does is laugh.

“I’ll bet it’s true, though. Look – there’s nothing to worry about, yeah? We’ll just stay here like this, and I’m not going to do anything you don’t ask me to.”

“That doesn’t worry me,” Athos replies stiffly, picking up the book again with his free hand.

“Then what does?”

In that moment Athos considers, for the first time, whether it really would be better to just tell Aramis everything and get it over with, rather than drip-feeding the truth and just dragging the whole process out needlessly. He hopes it’d be like ripping off a plaster: briefly painful, but better in the long run for all concerned if he can just spit everything out and let Aramis decide what he wants to do with the information.

That he’s incapable of having a functional relationship. That he never wanted any of this, and that even though he’s doing his best to get on with things, most of him still doesn’t. That he’s rapidly starting to wonder how he’ll manage when Aramis inevitably realises the two of them are going nowhere, and falls for someone else.

Between the attempted kiss and how right Aramis feels tucked against him, unruly hair tickling his neck and the warmth of their hands enjoined, he’s forced to admit that something has already taken root – and it’s only the knowledge that Aramis deserves something better than this which keeps him silent.

If Aramis knows he’s starting to feel things he shouldn’t, Athos is pretty sure he’ll stay by his side out of guilt.

He was never going to be happy anyway, he reminds himself. At least this way, one of them can be.

“Look, you must realise I can feel it all churning around in there.” Aramis’ thumb starts to stroke gently over Athos’ knuckles, and Athos bites the inside of his lip, wishing Aramis would stop. Wishing he didn’t simultaneously want him to _never_ stop. “And I’ve figured out a few things already – that you’re not as good at hiding how you feel as you think you are, and that I know exactly when you’re doing it. And that whatever’s going on with you isn’t only about alcohol. But beyond that, I’m just not sure I know what to do with you.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Athos quips half-heartedly, closing his eyes and letting his head rest on top of Aramis’, wishing he could be anybody else.

All he’s tried to do since this whole thing started is keep it together – to maintain some level of privacy, some semblance of self, even, for both their sakes – and he hasn’t even been able to manage that.

Aramis’ thumb stills against Athos’ knuckles as he suddenly asks, “Is it because I’m a man?”

“What?” Athos barks in response, completely thrown – and he sits up, shrugging Aramis’ head from his shoulder and turning to stare at him, because that is so _far_ from what’s going on here that it’s almost funny. “No, I… no. I don’t…”

Aramis shrugs slightly. “I think it’s a reasonable assumption. I mean, I didn’t think you were homophobic or anything – Porthos wouldn’t be friends with you, for one – but it’s different when it’s you. I know that from experience. You’re what, thirty-three, you’ve thought of yourself as straight all your life… and then I come along and blow all that out of the water.”

When he considers all the aspects of his life that Aramis has blown out of the water in the past week, Athos’ sexuality comes so far down on his mental list that it’s barely even merited consideration. After all, Aramis is going to realise that Athos isn’t who he wants long before there’s any question of them getting to that point.

Truthfully, he says, “I wasn’t thinking of it like that at all. I’m not sure I’m very… it’s never really mattered to me either way.”

Aramis looks at him intently for a moment, before nodding in concession. “So if it’s not that, what is it?”

Athos closes his eyes, for one mad moment imagining saying, _I’m falling for you_ … but it’s absurd. He’s not that man, even if he wanted to be.

“It’s not easy to explain,” he says instead, stalling for time while he tries to figure out what, exactly, he _is_ going to say.

Not everything, but… something.

He does owe Aramis some understanding of what he’s got himself into, after all.

Aramis settles himself back against Athos, taking his hand again and clasping it in both of his; and Athos breathes deeply and allows himself to draw strength from Aramis’ presence as he hears him say, “We’ve got time. I’ve not got anywhere to be.”

“Alright,” Athos replies – and takes the plunge.

“There’s not any one thing,” he says, feeling the words forming in his mouth, movements of lips and tongue and a step he can’t go back from. “This is just – me. Who I am.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Okay…” Aramis says, dragging the sounds out as if he’s testing them, “what exactly are you saying? Because I want to be sure I understand.”

“I’m – I have depression.” Athos says in a rush, staring unseeing at the dark screen of his broken television, not daring to look round and meet Aramis’ eyes. Forcing the words out, before he bottles it. “That’s why things are – the way they are. The drinking, the television being broken. Why I don’t have a job.”

“You _have_ a job,” Aramis replies, bewildered. “You told me about it.”

“I freelance,” Athos clarifies, “when I can. I’m a ‘consultant’, but that doesn’t mean anything really, it just means I’m not an employee. I do enough work to keep myself afloat, but that’s all. I haven’t worked in a few weeks – I was between projects when we met, and since then I haven’t taken on anything else.”

He hopes nobody’s been trying to get in touch with him, he’s not sure he’s even opened his email in a week; and the thought brings with it a familiar wave of self-loathing. He would at least like to be thought of as professionally valuable, even if he’s a failure in all other respects.

Aramis squeezes his hand.

“Go on,” he prompts. “I’m listening.”

“I don’t…” Athos sighs, slowly closes his eyes and opens them again. “I don’t really know how to talk about this. I have no experience in the matter. So, if there’s something that comes to mind.”

While he’s never been any good at baring his soul, answering a direct question is something he can normally manage.

“Alright. Just let me think for a moment.” Aramis doesn’t move away, at least, turning his hand to entwine his fingers with Athos’, pressing their palms together. Athos can feel his worry in his mind, or at least he thinks it’s Aramis’ worry. Perhaps it’s both of theirs.

“Okay. How long have you been depressed?”

“About four years now, since – my divorce. That was when it started.”

If he’s honest with himself then it probably has its roots long before, back in those days he doesn’t think about; but it was only when he was finally left alone in that house he’d lived in all his life, slowly drinking the cellar dry, that everything began to hurt so much he wondered how – and why – his stubborn body persisted in drawing breath.

“Okay,” Aramis says again – remarkably calmly, Athos decides, none of the disappointment or frustration he’d expected. “And all the things I’ve felt coming from you, all the sadness, how much of that’s been situational and how much of it is ‘just you’?”

“It’s…” He stalls for a moment, unable to find the words, a halfway acceptable way to say _I didn’t want you to see this._

“I’m a very private person,” he tries in the end. “I’m not used to having other people in my life, even, and now there’s someone in my _head._ ”

When the feelings coming through the bond turn abruptly cold, Athos realises he’s got it wrong.

“Am _I_ making you feel like this?” Aramis asks, a new fear in his voice; and though even a week ago he would have said that at least a part of it is very much that, now that Athos is faced with the idea he recoils from it, starts to wonder just how long it hasn’t been true.

Maybe even just today. That was when he gave up hiding; and there’s been something a little freeing about it, that he hadn’t expected, to show Aramis the real him for the first time and not to have him even be annoyed – because Aramis can no more hide from Athos than Athos can from him – but just very calm and very patient, and to turn things around for him just a little, until he might almost be said to have enjoyed himself.

He disgusts himself with his own selfishness, really, but there’s no helping it: that a subtle corner was turned, and the idea of being joined to another person irreparably became less of a burden and more of a crutch.

Aramis can never leave him, however low he sinks. Aramis will always try and believe in him – and they will both try and make the best of this – because the alternative is simply too depressing to contemplate.

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

 _Touch,_ he thinks, _Aramis likes touch;_ and he puts an arm around Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him close and feeling the tightness ease in his own chest as warmth flows back into his mind and Aramis settles against his shoulder after only a moment’s hesitation, reaching for his other hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m not explaining this very well.” He takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. “What I mean is that I don’t let anyone see me like this, as a rule. Not even Porthos. I – need to be my own person. And that suddenly changing has been somewhat difficult to accept.”

“And why is that?” Aramis asks, stroking across Athos’ knuckles with his thumb once more. “Why can’t you let someone else take a little of the load?”

Athos can’t help the image of her face that appears in his mind, cruel and beautiful as ever, and his blood runs cold for just a moment.

“Because I’m English?” he says instead, reaching up to tuck Aramis’ hair out of the way where it’s tickling his neck. “I don’t know what your family’s like, but in mine, we didn’t discuss our feelings. And I went away to school when I was six, where one learned very quickly not to show any weakness. There was no…” he fumbles for a suitable description and comes up short, ending instead with, “You just had to get on with things.”

“ _God._ I can’t imagine,” Aramis replies, with feeling. “My upbringing was more of a contest of who could express themselves the loudest and most often, with my father sitting in the corner and occasionally complaining aloud that his son was turning into one of the women.” Athos can half-see his mouth twist strangely, but before he can decide whether or not he wants to ask about it, Aramis is speaking again. “If you had a problem, everybody knew about it. Even if they didn’t want to, probably. It’s been hard, actually, to learn that not everything needs to be aired out. Sometimes you can’t thrash out your differences, because they just run too deep. In this case, me and my sister Lucía. And – I think I owe you an apology.”

“Whatever for?” Athos asks, nonplussed.

“For not appreciating just how difficult this is for you,” Aramis replies, fearlessly meeting Athos’ eyes. “I can’t truly put myself in your place, because I spent my whole life imagining how wonderful it would be when my soul mate and I knew what was in each other’s hearts, without even having to say. But – I can imagine how awful it would be if I suddenly had to keep everything I felt to myself, because it would be completely against my nature. Like this is for you.”

Athos closes his eyes and rests his head against Aramis’ for a moment, overcome – but it’s not panic he’s feeling, he realises slowly, but _gratitude_. Gratitude to Aramis for understanding him so effortlessly, for looking at their two opposing natures and immediately finding the common ground.

 _Constance said you were easy to love_ , he remembers.

He thinks he’s starting to understand what she meant; and it’s that thought which gives him the courage at last to try and explain, _properly_ explain.

“When it… started, I just stopped everything. Working, leaving the house, speaking to anybody. I had the luxury of having enough money to do that, of course. Porthos was the only one who – he came to the house when I stopped answering the phone. The family lawyer sold the – sold my old house and found this flat, and Porthos helped me move. Since then, it’s been – well. This has been my life, just as you’ve seen it. Nothing more.”

Aramis doesn’t say anything in response, just squeezes Athos’ hand; and Athos supposes the warm compassion flowing into his mind is what Aramis was talking about when he said they wouldn’t even have to say the words.

He supposes he can accept it. Neither of them can change it, in any case.

“I was at my worst for the first year, or perhaps eighteen months. It was all very – raw. After that, everything just felt pointless. That was when I started to work again, joined the library, just a few things to go through the motions. But everything I’d once taken for granted was still very difficult. As if even existing had become more than I was capable of.”

“And how are you feeling now?”

He assumes Aramis means ‘in recent weeks’ _,_ rather than ‘right this second’.

“Things are… unpredictable. Some days, I do a reasonable impression of a normal person. On other days I don’t see the point in getting out of bed at all, or the idea of speaking to a stranger is…”

However open he wants to be, there are still some things he can’t bring himself to put into words. The way his heart races and he feels sick to his stomach, the fear that spikes in his chest until he starts to shake, clenching his fists to try and stop it, the way he can’t quite catch his breath until he’s back home and there’s a locked door between him and the rest of the world.

He could hide sadness, he thinks, he could hide apathy.

Panic, he cannot.

Aramis’ voice cuts suddenly through his thoughts.

“Are you ever happy?”

His first thought is _how does one know_ , which he does at least recognise as not being a normal response.

He’s not sure he remembers what it’s like.

Is it the way he feels when their bare skin touches?

“I don’t know if you’d say _happy_ ,” he says in the end. “Content, yes.”

“With a good book and a good wine, watching the rain,” Aramis supplies. “I remember. But I was thinking more along the lines of joyful.”

_With Anne, I was._

“Not… since,” he manages. Realises the strength of his grip on Aramis’ hand, forces himself to loosen his fingers. “It’s not quite been on my radar, to be frank. I’ve mostly been concerned with putting one foot in front of the other.”

Aramis falls silent for a long while; and Athos manages to resist the temptation to immediately jump to conclusions, instead searching the link for evidence as to how he’s feeling. Aramis is sad, he realises, but it’s not a sharp sadness, rather a slow form of wistfulness – and he can tell the two apart now, he realises, when he’s sure he couldn’t a week ago.

Perhaps this is what it means when a bond has settled, that they have even more facility with reading each other’s emotions; and he should probably be concerned but he’s just weary instead, bone-deep exhausted with everything he’s felt today, left only with wanting nothing more than to stay here with Aramis forever, just like this.

As if on cue, he yawns massively.

Aramis lifts his head, grinning up at him with amusement. “It sounds like I should let you get some sleep, then. And – thank you for telling me. I know it isn’t easy for you to talk about.”

“Oh, I’m good for a bit yet, actually,” Athos replies. He doesn’t really listen to his body, as a general rule – being tired is no guarantee that he won’t be lying awake for hours yet, staring at the ceiling.

“It’s nearly eleven,” Aramis points out, looking at the time on his phone, “and we’ve both had a long day. Why don’t we –” he hesitates, his nervousness plain – “go and lie down again, like we did earlier?”

“Alright,” Athos agrees cautiously; because he doesn’t have a real reason to object, he supposes, and he certainly owes it to Aramis to do what makes him happy, after everything Athos has told him.

And if he’s honest with himself, then the small, selfish part of him that refuses to be quieted is happy too. Happy to be close to Aramis for a while longer, to just enjoy what he can while it’s offered to him.

Athos shakes the duvet out across the bed and they both lie down on top of it, fully-dressed; and there’s a few moments of tension before Aramis mutters something to himself that sounds like it might be _fuck it_ and rolls over to rest his head on Athos’ shoulder, throwing an arm across his waist.

It’s strange, holding someone. Athos is definitely out of practice; but the way Aramis moves into his space as naturally as if he has a template for it that Athos isn’t privy to, the rush of warmth that Athos feels stirring his blood every time, are addictive.

There’s no point resisting, that much has become clear. His biology is far stronger than any resolve he might have once had; and all he can do is hold on for the ride, and try to believe that they’ll get through this somehow.

He rests his hand tentatively on Aramis’ waist.

“Shall I tell you why you should let me carry a little of your burden?”

“Why is that?” Athos replies, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Because it’s no longer yours alone,” Aramis says, with the conviction of one for whom things really are that simple. “Whatever you’re feeling, I feel it as well now. And while that might be hard to get used to at first, it means I can always help, if you let me. So – lean on me, just a little.”

“You’re the one leaning on me,” Athos jokes weakly, the only thing he can think of to say.

“Well, this is what I need from you,” Aramis replies quite seriously, curling just a little closer into Athos’ chest in response. “Human contact. You can think of me as a pet, if it helps. Just scratch behind the ears.”

It’s so unexpected, Athos can’t help laughing – or as close as he gets to a laugh nowadays, which is just one surprised puff of air pushing its way up from his chest and out from his mouth – nor is he expecting the way Aramis cranes his neck to stare up at him in delight.

“That was a laugh, wasn’t it? I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

“I suppose,” Athos replies, feeling somewhat put on the spot.

“When was the last time?”

“I’m not sure I recall.” With Porthos, he’d assume – but though Porthos laughs at him a lot, big belly laughs and unselfconscious grins, Athos tends to think of himself as more of a ‘wry smile in response’ type. “I’m – not very effusive.”

“Well, that’s alright,” Aramis replies easily, settling his head back down against Athos’ chest. “I’m not expecting you to turn into me or anything. I just want you to be the happiest version of yourself. I mean – if we’re honest, neither of us got what we were expecting, did we?”

“Please elaborate,” Athos manages, his chest suddenly tight again.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Aramis reaches for his hand, the now-familiar warmth of the touch a blessed relief, easing the pressure over Athos’ heart. “This might sound harsh, but I need to say it – I don’t think I was much more ready for you than you were for me. I always assumed when my time came that I’d bond with someone just like me, who felt exactly the same as I did. Instead, it’s been quite the learning curve.”

“I’m sorry,” Athos says automatically, “I never wanted to –”

He falls silent at the sudden press of Aramis’ finger against his lips.

“ _Stop. Talking._ ” Aramis pushes himself up onto his knees, and he’s _angry_ , Athos realises in confusion. “Do _not_ finish that sentence. That is literally the opposite of what I mean. Look, I know you think this is all some sort of coincidence, but I can’t help feeling it was meant to be somehow. In _here_.” He presses his hand over his heart, and Athos tries to ignore how bare his lips feel without the touch of Aramis’ finger there. “This is the universe’s way of telling me to grow up. To knuckle down and be an adult.”

“Why, what were you like before?”

“In a word? Flighty.” Aramis sighs a little dramatically, and collapses back against the pillow with a thump. “At first, I just wanted to have some fun before I met my soul mate. And I did. A _lot_ of fun.” He grins at the thought. “And then the years started to pass, and I wondered how long it was going to be before my soul mate showed. And I kept on having fun, and when I felt hollow inside I lost myself in feeling good, and I bailed at the first sign of attachment or complication. I wasn’t doing it to be cruel,” he adds hastily, “I just knew it wouldn’t last. We’d have a good time and then they’d find someone to love who wasn’t me, who could be what they deserved, and I would – keep on waiting.”

“Well, you’re not waiting any more,” Athos points out – quite reasonably, he thinks.

“No,” Aramis replies, something small and subdued in his voice. “But I still am really, aren’t I?”

 _For something I don’t have to give_ , Athos thinks with a pang that jolts him right back down to earth, staring into Aramis’ dark eyes and wishing for a moment he could be that man Aramis so desperately wants.

“You want to,” Aramis whispers, reaching out and brushing Athos’ jaw with his fingers, feather-light. “I can feel it. But you don’t let yourself, and that I can’t understand. I’m hoping one day soon you’ll explain it to me.”

Every time he thinks he’s got somewhere, every time he thinks he might just have figured out how to make this work, it feels like he’s knocked straight back again.

He’d thought this would be it – that he’d get everything out in the open – and yet it seems like they’ve barely started.

He’ll do whatever he can, he knows that – but that doesn’t mean he trusts himself.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Aramis continues, when he doesn’t reply, and leans over to brush his lips lightly against Athos’ forehead and murmur, “Good night,” before slipping from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Athos sighs and stares up at the shaft of light on the ceiling where the curtains aren’t quite closed, preparing himself for a long night with his thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

Athos sleeps about as well as he expected to, Aramis’ words playing over and over in his mind like an audio file on loop, no answers coming with them; and it’s well into the early hours of the morning before exhaustion finally wins out, and he falls into a restless sleep.

The next thing he knows, he’s waking from a dream – finding Aramis sitting shivering on his doorstep, reproachful because Athos never remembered to give him his own key, and Aramis hadn’t known where Athos was or if he was even coming back – which leaves enough of an unpleasant aftertaste that he drags himself immediately out of bed, pulls his tracksuit trousers on and goes to rummage through the bottom drawer in the kitchen, where all the pegs and almost-empty cigarette lighters and bits of string live, before remembering that Porthos has his spare key and he’ll have to ask for it back.

He’s managed to sleep late enough that there’s not time for much of anything before Athos is due to go and meet Porthos for coffee, all he can do is to shower and dress and nod carefully at Aramis as he wrestles his way into his winter coat, still half-asleep, promising to be back in a couple of hours and not realising until he’s pulled the front door shut behind him that he doesn’t know if he ever said where he was going or not.

The walk does little to clear his head, which is still muzzy with sleep, and when he gets to the café he almost sighs in relief to see that Porthos is not only there waiting for him, but has already ordered him something.

“Athos.” Porthos stands, and Athos has just a split second to wonder what’s happening before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug – and he knew Porthos is a big guy but he hadn’t quite remembered how it felt, to be surrounded by what must be six foot three of solid muscle.

Porthos pulls back, holding him at arm’s length for a moment as he looks him up and down; and Athos finds himself saying, “Good afternoon,” somewhat desperately.

“Alright,” Porthos says, dropping his hands, with a fondness Athos is sure he doesn’t deserve after what’s happened. “Get some coffee in you, and then you can explain to me why you soul bonded with my boyfriend.”

“Porthos –”

“Or we can start by talking about how crazy he’s making you, if you like?”

Athos knows that look in Porthos’ eye, and so he decides that the wisest thing to do at this juncture is just to keep quiet and drink the first half of his coffee; and it’s not until he feels the first stirrings of the caffeine weaving its way through his body that he clears his throat and says, “I was as surprised as you were, when it happened.”

“Was there a mistake with your test, then?”

“I never took the test,” Athos confesses. “There’s never been a single soul bond anywhere in the family. So I just didn’t bother. To my mind, there was no question of me being positive.”

“Wow.” Porthos, improbably, is grinning at him, though Athos decides his expression hasn’t completely lost its sharp edge. “No wonder you bolted. What happened, then?”

“Well, he followed me, as you know. It took him the best part of the evening to convince me there hadn’t been some mistake. And then he – stayed. I think we’re both trying to take it one day at a time as much as possible,” Athos summarises, as briefly as he can manage.

“No kidding,” Porthos replies, with feeling. “And just how nuts are you going?”

Athos knows he should have expected no less. Their friendship has never involved pulling any punches; and he does respect Porthos for it really, however much he periodically finds himself wishing it were possibly to politely bullshit him in the same way Athos can with anyone else.

In the absence of that option, he supposes he’ll just have to spit it out.

“It varies,” he admits, forcing himself to meet Porthos’ eyes. “Some things are easier than others.”

“Like what?” Porthos asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.

 _This shouldn’t be difficult._ He’s told Aramis, for God’s sake; surely he can manage to tell Porthos as well.

“He’s… in my head,” Athos says at last, voice quiet enough that he’s not sure Porthos will have heard. Hopes he will have; doesn’t think he could bear to have to repeat himself. “I can’t keep anything from him. I can shut him out briefly, but the effort to required to maintain it isn’t sustainable. Even when he’s sleeping, I can wake him up if I’m not careful, just by –”

His throat closes up around the word _feeling_.

He makes himself take a breath before continuing. “There’s no point railing against it, of course; it is what it is. But…” He trails off, shrugging slightly.

“Christ.” Porthos’ voice is as full as sympathy as Athos remembers hearing it for quite some years. “Well, I’m starting to understand why you buggered off yesterday.”

“I just needed some privacy. To think about what I –“

He doesn’t know where this sudden urge towards confession has come from, if Aramis has awakened it in him; but he’s starting to realise that he’s become so hopelessly embroiled in this whole situation that he just can’t see clearly, and perhaps Porthos at least can provide an outside viewpoint.

With that in mind he makes himself say, “I tried to kiss him.”

“Woah, okay, back it up a bit.” Porthos is staring – and Athos supposes that he has jumped right to the end of the story and missed out the middle. “What do you mean, you _tried_ to?”

“He stopped me. He said I – wasn’t ready for it.”

It’s embarrassing to admit – he and Porthos don’t talk about this kind of thing, their friendship being more of the ‘silently supportive’ kind – but he realises that nothing else makes any sense without this.

Porthos snorts. “Now that sounds exactly like him. But I don’t know whether I’m coming or going with this, to be honest. I mean, I didn’t even want to ask you, not after a week, but – please tell me you weren’t just trying to do what you thought he wanted. I mean, you’re straight, for fuck’s sake, you’re hardly going to fool him for long.”

 _Fuck,_ Athos thinks distinctly, aware of the way Porthos is staring at him, as though Athos has been particularly stupid.

He has, of course, but not quite for the reason Porthos thinks.

“I –” Athos sighs, reaches up to flick a stray piece of hair out of his eyes, and takes another sip of his coffee. “Well. When I said I was heterosexual, I believed that to be the truth. I may have been discounting several adolescent incidents.” At Porthos’ raised eyebrow, he clarifies, “It was boarding school. I put it down to experimentation. Anyway, since this bond formed… well. I’m finding that perhaps my ‘phase’ was less of a phase than I’d always assumed.”

Athos doesn’t think the expression rapidly forming on Porthos’ face could be any more incredulous if he’d just announced his intention to go and live in a commune.

“My God,” he breathes, half-disbelieving. “You’re actually falling for him.”

Athos can’t help wincing.

Porthos’ expression closes, shock replaced by something far too complicated to name; and Athos finds himself wishing for the bond for the first time, if only to be able to make sense of what’s swirling around in there beneath the surface. Anger, probably, the awareness that Aramis was until very recently Porthos’ boyfriend all too strong in his own mind.

He certainly isn’t expecting Porthos to roll his eyes, with that look of frustrated fondness that Athos is quickly starting to associate with other people when they talk about Aramis. “Jesus Christ. Is there anyone that man couldn’t turn.”

Athos decides the question’s probably a rhetorical one.

“I’d love to be able to say, then what’s the problem, but I think I can guess,” Porthos finishes, leaning back again and taking a deep drink. “You’ve managed to convince yourself that you can’t possibly do this and that it’s all going to collapse about your ears, am I right?”

He’s already nodding sympathetically, as if he doesn’t even need Athos to answer; so Athos doesn’t bother, just finishes his coffee with his eyes firmly on the table between them.

Porthos’ continued presence in his life has never made that much sense to Athos, considering how he’s behaved; but somewhere along the line he’s just accepted it for what it is, without even noticing. It was probably some time in that first year, when Porthos was picking him up off the floor after yet another bad day and Athos didn’t have the energy left to wonder why he was still there, only found himself pathetically grateful that Porthos had persisted where everybody else had given up.

He can’t help thinking that pretty much everything in his life would be a lot easier if just accepting the things he can’t make sense of was more of a transferable skill.

“Okay,” Porthos says, in such a way that Athos can tell he’s changing tack, “so why don’t you tell me how it’s been so far? What it’s like spending time with him, what he’s like?”

“Don’t you already know what he’s like?” Athos counters, a little more desperately than he’d like. He can sort of tell where this is going – though he’s not sure why he ever expected anything else.

“Yeah, but I want to know what _you_ think he’s like. And what he’s like with you.”

Well, that’s not an unreasonable point.

“Alright. It’s been – rather surreal, actually. Just having him there, that is. Having someone else in the flat, to begin with.”

It’s difficult to hold Porthos’ gaze as he says that last part, all too aware of the way he suddenly stopped inviting Porthos over one day, started suggesting Athos come to him, or they meet somewhere public; but the patient kindness in Porthos’ eyes suggests he knows all too well what exactly is going on in Athos’ mind, or at least thinks he does, and isn’t bothered.

“He cooks, pretty well actually. Certainly better than me. He talks about his family. We went to meet his housemate. I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“I want to know what you think of him,” Porthos presses. “Imagine we’ve never met, and you have to describe him to me.”

“He’s – unlike me. In every possible way,” Athos says, because he has to say _something_ and he can feel the first stirrings of panic from not knowing where to begin. “He’s extroverted, constantly cheerful, he loves his family, and he’s hopelessly idealistic. But he’s patient and kind, and he’s genuinely interested in me. In us getting to know each other.”

He realises a moment too late that his tone says far too clearly, _I can’t think why._

“You not interested in him, then?”

Athos’ heart skips a beat before he realises the way Porthos is looking at him, that he’s being baited. “He’s a good man. I want him to be happy.”

“That’s great, but also not what I asked.”

Athos presses the flats of his hands firmly against the tablecloth to stop them clenching into fists; and he’s just staring at the looming blankness in the centre of his mind where he should surely have an answer when Porthos unexpectedly shrugs. “It’s something to think about, anyway. But he’s not being too full-on, yeah? I don’t need to come round and start knocking heads?”

“No, he’s been very patient,” Athos replies, relieved beyond measure by the change of subject. “He gets frustrated occasionally, but that’s understandable.” Anyone would be frustrated if they had to deal with Athos that much. “I mean, it sounds like he’s been raised on a steady diet of happily-ever-afters, no wonder he’s disappointed.”

“Did he say that?”

“He doesn’t have to.”

_Is Porthos being deliberately obtuse, or does he really imagine this is ever going to end well?_

“Alright.” Porthos makes a face that Athos knows from long experience means, _now we’re getting to it._ “So what, exactly, _did_ he say?”

“That he was expecting someone just like him, who felt the same way as he did. That it’s been a learning curve.” Athos decides not to mention the way Aramis wouldn’t let him apologise for the mess they’re in, the finger he pressed to Athos’ lips.

“And Aramis, for all his virtues, is more of an optimist than a realist,” Porthos picks up. “While the two of us didn’t talk a whole lot about soul bonds, I’m not surprised he blithely assumed everything would just magically work itself out somehow, and then was disappointed when it didn’t. But I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you that that disappointment of his is with the fact that bonded relationships turn out to need just as much work as any non-bonded relationship, and not some kind of disappointment with you as a person.”

“But he still seems to think we’re destined for each other,” Athos insists – and he’s not entirely sure why he’s arguing the point, and to Porthos of all people, but it seems the easiest of the available options. “And it’s impossible. There’s just no such thing. The numbers, for one – it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Alright, and why are you so invested in debunking it?” Porthos shoots back. “If you two are happy together, why does it matter if he believes what he wants to?”

_Because he’ll never be happy with me._

Because chance, coincidence, are neutral; only fate can be cruel.

Athos stares at Porthos, his chest starting to feel tight again as he frantically racks his brains for an answer he can bear to give, that Porthos might actually accept.

“Would you like another coffee?”

Porthos is already reaching for his cup.

“Please,” Athos replies gratefully, feeling his chest ease off again as Porthos gets up to go to the counter.

On impulse, he gets his phone out and sends Aramis a text.

_Can’t remember if I said I’m meeting Porthos for coffee. He’s bringing my spare key back for you. Will be home in time to get dinner._

When Porthos puts a fresh cup of coffee down in front of him, Athos reaches for it gladly. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” Porthos replies, sitting down and crossing his forearms on the tabletop. “So here’s the thing. You remember when we used to talk about prioritising? Well, you’re under a lot of stress right now, any fool can see that, and you can’t afford to care about everything. You may not have wanted this bond but you’re in it for good, and stressing about Aramis knowing how you’re feeling isn’t going to change that.”

“No, fair point,” Athos concedes. “We’ve just got to get used to it.”

And he knows how to do that, he supposes, he’s done it before and he will do again. How to knuckle down and get on with things, even when they seem impossible; how to take life just one step at a time until he achieves at least some facsimile of function.

“Exactly. And so what if Aramis is a bit delusional? Who cares _why_ he thinks you’re his soul mate and not anybody else, when what matters is that you _are_? That might just be his way of coping. Tell himself that the two of you will work it out, because you’re destined to. Fake it till you make it.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Athos confesses.

As usual, he’s been so self-absorbed that he’s missed it entirely.

He knows how Aramis is _feeling_ , every minute of every day; but he should know from his own experience that that’s only half the picture. He’s not sure he’s ever considered how Aramis is _thinking_.

“Well, you can’t think of everything yourself,” Porthos replies generously, dragging Athos’ attention back from his own self-loathing. “That’s what you’ve got me for. Just – don’t faff about, yeah? Focus on learning to live with him instead. And on helping him learn to live with you. It’s that simple. And anything else that comes will come.”

 _He’ll need that help_ , Athos thinks darkly.

When he gets home half an hour later and presents Aramis with his own key, he isn’t expecting him to press an enthusiastic kiss to Athos’ cheek as he enthuses, “Oh, you star, thank you so much. I was thinking we’ve still got the leftover Chinese, but I want to pop to the supermarket anyway, just to get out of the house. How was Porthos?”

“He’s well,” Athos manages, left reeling a little both by the sudden change of subject and by the echo of warm lips against his still-cold cheek. “He’s not angry with me, which I suppose is good.”

“I’d never have thought he would be,” Aramis replies easily. “You know you could have invited him here, right? I wouldn’t have minded.”

Even Athos recognises the question for what it is – the implication that though he knows Athos and Porthos are best friends, Aramis is feeling left out – and as he tries to figure out what to say, he can’t help hearing Porthos’ voice in his mind.

_Help him learn to live with you._

“I wanted it to be just the two of us this time,” Athos says truthfully, resisting the urge to reach for Aramis’ hand where he’s bracing himself against the kitchen table, still holding the key. “I owed him an explanation. Of a lot of things, really. But that was just this time. I’m sure he’ll want to see how we’re both doing.”

“I’d love that,” Aramis beams. “Invite him whenever you like. I’ll cook.”

And Athos smiles and reminds himself to prioritise, and that him and Aramis having Porthos over for dinner is hardly going back to the way things were before; and when Aramis leaves the house and drops out of his mind, Athos lets himself fill the space by imagining the three of them sitting around his kitchen table together, talking and joking, enjoying each other’s company, the warmth of Aramis’ hand in his.

It’s a little too good to be true, of course, but Athos supposes he can’t tackle all of his weaknesses at once.

One at a time, and he might just get there.


	14. Chapter 14

Athos wakes at nine o’clock on Monday morning to find the house quiet and his head blissfully empty.

 _He’s gone_ , he says to himself, feeling a little guilty about just how relieved he is to finally be alone; but it’s hardly a surprise, he supposes, when he’s not used to having other people around at all, and he and Aramis have been practically joined at the hip for the last week.

Though he’s still tired and could easily doze for another hour or so, he makes himself get out of bed and take advantage of the time he has spread out in front of him, pulling on his tracksuit trousers and walking through the living room into the kitchen, drinking in the silence.

He catches sight of the clock on the oven and thinks, _seven hours._

He feels...  _good_. Not just alright but actually, positively good, like a weight’s been lifted that he wasn’t even aware of, his shoulders suddenly light without it. Perhaps it’s ironic that finally having the freedom to feel stressed, or sad, or anxious, he feels none of these things; only looks around and wonders what to do with all this time, that suddenly seems rich with possibility.

After a large coffee and even a slice of toast, he ends up defaulting to housework, stacking the dishwasher and cleaning the kitchen counters. He’s too used to a dearth of good days to be anything other than productive, and he knows that letting everything get too untidy will only make his mental health worse. The work’s physically but not mentally taxing, and as he scrubs the kitchen table and decides to mop the floor as well while he’s at it, he can’t help his mind wandering back to Aramis.

Athos pushes in the chair he sat on yesterday as he watched Aramis cook, at home in the kitchen already after just a few days. He asked if Athos minded if he moved a few things around first, gently establishing that Athos in fact had no system at all anyway and that was why there were so many duplicate spice pots and out-of-date sauce packets and God knows what else; and Aramis said they could sit down at some point and go through it all, decide together where everything would go.

He feels like that’s what Aramis wants to be for him, the person who comes in and rearranges the scattered blocks of Athos’ life into something strong, ordered, a structure that can take his own weight.

Or is that what _he_ wants Aramis to be?

He can’t decide and thinking about it’s starting to make him anxious, and so he focuses on the details: the aftertaste of red wine, the sizzle of the frying pan and the smell of mushrooms, chorizo and paprika, as Athos ran his fingers against the grain of the table and wondered if they would kiss each other soon, if he’d like the feeling of Aramis’ lips on his, of his stubble against his face.

Anne was the last person he’d kissed, the morning before she announced she was leaving him; and he wondered if it would take him back there, send him scattering.

He carefully kept himself very quiet, and very still, and if Aramis felt something he could interpret then he gave no sign of it, just working the spatula through the contents of the frying pan, sending everything head over heels.

Athos mops his way back out of the kitchen and through the living room door, where he potters for a bit as the floor gleams, wandering back and forth and back and forth to return various things to their rightful places, one at a time.

One thing at a time, that’s how he’s going to play this. One laptop next to his on the coffee table, one hoodie slung over the back of the sofa, one more pair of shoes by the front door. One problem at a time, one misunderstanding, one anxiety, working his way ever closer to the centre of the spiral until there’s nothing left to hide behind any more.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe in this – but he supposes that’s progress, when just a few days ago he would have said he didn’t for sure.

 _Prioritise_ , he reminds himself.

The kitchen’s done, he thinks, the living room’s tidy. There’s the bathroom and toilet still, vacuuming and laundry, there’s always laundry.

And his bedroom.

He truly doesn’t know how long it’s been, just remembers the shame he felt letting Aramis in. How he wouldn’t open the curtains, didn’t even want to put the light on. How for the next time – not for _that,_ he’s not even ready to think about that yet, not when he doesn’t even know how it would feel to kiss him – but for whatever reason it ends up being then he doesn’t want to have the state of his bedroom hanging over him, not when so much else is still uncertain.

He resolves to throw everything that’s on the floor into the wash – it probably needs it – and drawing back the curtains, lets in the light.

It’s almost two when he breaks for lunch, the washing machine humming from behind a closed door and everything as close to spotless as he’s likely to get it. He even resolves to send a few emails, see if he can get some work again, though he feels a little awkward about the fact that his office is currently Aramis’ bedroom, and thus his private space.

_Two hours._

For an absurd moment he imagines himself as a fifties housewife, scrubbing everything in the house until it’s gleaming, counting the minutes until his man gets home.

The noise he makes is somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. _Priorities_ , he reminds himself.

It’s grey and dull both outside and in, and he remembers seeing some tea lights in the drawer of crap in the kitchen, puts three of them on the coffee table and lights them, watches as the tentative flames take root, crackling a little as they grow.

Bright, warm and steady, swaying a little back and forth, though he would have said it was perfectly still.

He lies down lengthways on the sofa and lets his eyes close to the sound of rain starting to fall outside.

The next thing he knows is the front door closing.

A sudden streak of panic whips through him – _shit, he’s back, is it four already, did I –_ and he sits up abruptly to come face to face with Aramis, who’s just walked into the living room, mid-unbuttoning his coat.

“Hey,” Aramis whispers, “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“It’s fine,” Athos replies automatically, “I don’t normally…” He lets himself trail off, feeling inexplicably like apologising.

“No, don’t get up,” Aramis insists, though Athos is fairly sure he hasn’t moved. “Just stay right there, if you’re comfy. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’d love a coffee.”

“Coming right up.” There’s a pause, a waver through the bond – and then Aramis rests one hand on Athos’ nearest shoulder and presses a kiss to his hair, before turning away to the kitchen.

Earlier, alone, Athos felt as if he could deal with almost anything.

Now he has to resist the temptation to press a hand to that place on his head and wonder how exactly he’s going to stay afloat through this.

Aramis is hungry already, he says, and Athos lets himself be swept along in the current of someone else’s wants; and they heat up the rest of the Chinese and work their way through it. Athos remembers to ask about Aramis’ day, and hears about Molly, one of Aramis’ regulars, and their ‘book club’, and about the colleagues who sound almost as pleased about Aramis’ soul bond as he is, who were asking to see a photo of them already.

And Athos doesn’t panic, and doesn’t second-guess everything that Aramis says; rather, it feels as if he never quite woke from sleep, and he’s just observing himself as he asks the right questions and nods in the right places and lets Aramis take his hand, his fingers moving constantly against Athos’ palm as if he’s trying to rouse him, agreeing politely when Aramis says it’s still early and would he like to go for a walk.

Aramis takes his arm as they walk down the road – like a woman in a classic film, Athos thinks – and they’re silent as they head down the crooked steps to the river and along the towpath, where the streetlights are a little too far apart and the moon is full. They stop by a small jetty to look across the water and Aramis stamps his feet, rubbing his hands together as he lets out a breath of air, a sodium-orange puff of it that hovers in the cold night air for just a moment before it fades away. He’s beautiful like that, seeming in the strange light and the distance of his gaze to be so unreachable; and Athos wonders in that suspended moment just watching him if this will be their future too, him watching his own life play out with nothing to give –

– and everything happens so fast after that, Aramis asks if he’s alright and Athos opens his mouth to reply but a sob comes out instead, and Aramis steps forward and folds Athos into him, broad and strong and _real_ , just as the tears start to flow; and Athos clings to him in return, feeling as though he's nothing but his burning eyes and throat, and the space between Aramis’ arms as they wrap around him.

Aramis takes off one of his gloves and pushes that hand into Athos’ hair behind his ear, cold fingers against his scalp; and Athos thinks _just scratch behind the ears_ and laughs helplessly, though the sound’s indistinguishable from the sobs.

Aramis is murmuring platitudes, Athos can’t tell the language and doesn’t want to listen, just lets Aramis guide his head down to rest against his shoulder. He smells of antiseptic and the material of his jacket is rough against Athos’ forehead as he rubs circles into the small of Athos’ back with the other hand; and it takes a long time for him to realise Aramis is saying, “Tell me what to do. Athos. Tell me what to do.”

 _Fucked if I know,_ Athos thinks detachedly, _or we wouldn’t be in this mess._ It doesn’t even feel like he’s the one who’s crying, not really, though he knows it will hurt later, it’ll hurt like there’s someone sitting on his chest who won’t let him breathe; and he pulls away and blows his nose an embarrassing number of times before daring to look into Aramis’ eyes, which are large and wide and scared, though he’s trying valiantly to hide it.

“I don’t know,” Athos says in the end, his voice uncooperative; “these things just happen sometimes,” as he looks out across the river, feeling the gentle current pull at something inside his chest as if it wants to break loose, pull down the dam he barely acknowledges even to himself although it’s leaking, trickling the grief and panic he’s constantly trying to suppress, it has been for years.

And so he says it, because he has the nerve to, because he isn’t quite himself:

“And you can try and find out, but – I can’t promise what you’ll find.”

Aramis is silent for a long moment; and Athos watches the water and tries to ignore the tightness of his chest and the renewed burning of his eyes, and he’s half-expecting to hear the sound of footsteps as Aramis walks away when instead a hand finds his inside his pocket, and a little warmth blooms between them like a candle flame in a darkened room as Aramis says carefully, “Do you want me to?”

 _Learn to live with him,_ Athos thinks, _help him learn to live with you._

_I want to know if I can be someone who loves you._

“Yes,” he says, “I do.”

Behind them, the streetlamp flickers.

From the nearby road, the sound of passing traffic, a wood pigeon cooing in a nearby tree.

Nothing stops, nothing changes.

Aramis says, “Okay,” and taking Athos’ arm again, leads him gently home.

The house is dark and still, and when Aramis asks what he wants to do Athos announces his intention to go to bed, because he doesn’t see the point in being awake any longer.

Athos feels the newly-familiar hesitation in his mind that he knows means Aramis is thinking of something that he wants but is not sure how Athos will take it; and so he’s prepared when Aramis says, “I’d like to come with you, if I may. I – don’t really want to sleep alone tonight.”

“Please,” Athos agrees, in that voice that’s still not quite his own.

If Aramis had phrased it as an offer, Athos decides, he would have said he’s alright, he’ll be fine, with the implication that he’s happier alone; but as a request, as something he can do for Aramis’ sake, he finds himself agreeing without a moment’s thought.

He already has the feeling of being indebted, he decides, as Aramis joins him in the bathroom, the two of them silently brushing their teeth side by side for the first time. It’s shockingly intimate, the fluorescent light unforgiving, and he doesn’t meet Aramis’ eyes in the mirror.

Aramis has done so much for him already, and Athos is repaying him moment by moment, touch by touch, though he doubts very much that his slate will ever be wiped clean.

Aramis brings the spare duvet into Athos’ bedroom – and it’s absurd, Athos decides, nothing less than two grown men having a sleepover; but he says nothing as they turn off the light and strip together in the dark. He watches the muscles shift in Aramis’ bare back as he unbuttons his jeans, and wonders if he will start to want him soon, or if he will be no better at that part than he is at the rest of it.

He can’t believe, not yet. But he let his guard down long enough for a shard of hope to pierce his heart, and he knows that he has the potential now to crack himself open and let the light in.

Letting the light in, of course, means letting the darkness out.

Perhaps that’s not the metaphor he needs. Perhaps, instead, he needs to cut away at everything that’s rotten inside, piece by piece, pain by pain, make space for this new green shoot to flourish.

For now he drags the rest of his duvet out of Aramis’ way and gets in beneath it, cocooning himself as thoroughly as if he wishes to emerge anew in the morning; and once Aramis is lying down as well, tense on his back, Athos rolls over towards him and rests his head against Aramis’ bare shoulder.

“It didn’t seem real, earlier,” he says to Aramis’ collarbone, letting the warmth of their contact soothe the panic that hunkers in his depths, ever-threatening. “Whatever it was that caused it hasn’t caught up to me yet. It’s – still to come.”

Even admitting to this simple thing feels like pulling his heart from his chest and holding it out for view, and still he knows they’ve barely started.

“What happens when it does?” Aramis asks, his hand reaching out for Athos’ arm, just below the sleeve of his T-shirt.

“It will hurt.”

“And what should I do?”

“Not give up on me,” Athos whispers, his hands clenching in the duvet so that he doesn’t start to shake.

Even in the darkness, with his eyes squeezed shut, he can hear Aramis’ smile. “Don’t worry. I have faith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the complete lack of comment replies recently, everyone. I've been reading them all and do appreciate them more than mere words can convey, but I've been trying to put the time and energy towards getting more edits done instead.


	15. Chapter 15

During the days that follow, Athos starts to think of himself as two people: Old Athos and New Athos. He decides that it’s a useful device for framing the difference between who he has been and who he will become.

Who, then, will that be?

 _Priorities,_ he reminds himself, taking life one thing at a time. The first order of business, of course, being a fog of despair that lasts for several days.

He wakes the next morning to the noise of Aramis’ alarm, playing some God-awful pop song that they’re going to have words about once it’s not six in the morning and Athos is awake enough to form sentences; and though it’s quickly muted Aramis’ feelings keep him firmly awake after that, unfairly cheerful given the hour, and Athos is glad of the bond for the first time in his life as it means he doesn’t have to bother finding the energy to express his displeasure.

He can feel his sharp edges softening a little as Aramis leans in to press a goodbye kiss to his forehead and murmur an apology, before he hears the front door close and feels his awareness of Aramis fade from view; and it’s only after about three hours of uneasy dozing punctuated by considering getting out of bed and persistently not doing so that he realises it’s upon him.

He could get out of bed; but what, really, is the point?

It’s only when he imagines Aramis coming home from work to find him still lying there exactly as he left him that his shame becomes stronger than his apathy, and gets his trousers on and his body as far as the sofa, at least.

Another half hour gets him a coffee and a couple of those cereal bars that Porthos made him buy for the bad days. He feels slightly better afterwards – eating does take a little of the edge off, when he can bring himself to do it – but it’s only a matter of degrees; and he pulls the blanket over himself so at least he’s not shivering, and gazes out of the window while vaguely loathing himself for being such a wreck of a human being, wishing it would rain so he at least had something to look at.

 _What a brilliant start to the rest of my life_.

It’s impossible to even think logically about his situation: his body’s relatively awake but his mind’s exhausted, the idea of considering his situation like swimming through treacle, and no more achievable right now than if someone came round to ask him to solve some trigonometry or play a Rachmaninoff concerto.

Or forget those high-minded similes – it’s no more achievable than answering the door to any visitors in the first place.

He has at least had the foresight to bring a bottle of wine and a glass with him, for when he inevitably reaches that point.

If Porthos were here, Athos suspects he’d be forced to concede that if being New Athos were easy – if it _were_ a question of just thinking himself back to normality – he would have done it years ago.

Strangely enough, that’s his first clue.

 _Treat Aramis like Porthos,_ he decides – at least, when it seems appropriate. Porthos who never pushes Athos beyond what he can handle, who backs off or changes the subject when he needs to and doesn’t let him panic, but who always calls Athos on his bullshit.

He never means to lie to Porthos. It always happens without him realising, as though he’s just wired to disappoint somehow.

He wills his cloudy mind to clear, waiting for further revelations about New Athos to come to him.

They don’t.

He pours himself a glass of wine.

Though he forces himself to drink slowly, he’s on his third when he feels Aramis coming home, the awareness of him blooming behind his temple about a minute before he comes through the door. Worried, Athos decides, about him; and he feels newly shitty for it, but at least he’s had enough wine that the feeling’s as dull as everything else.

“Hey.” Aramis comes round to kiss Athos on the top of the head and squeeze his shoulder, still in his own coat, before clicking on the standing lamp. “How are you doing?”

Athos blinks in the sudden light, watches Aramis go over to close the curtains. Such a simple thing, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it in the hours he’s lain here, getting up to go to the toilet the limit of his abilities. He considers his answer for a moment, before deciding that he’s safe, at least, with facts. “I’m up.”

“That you are,” Aramis calls back easily from the coat hook – though with the benefit of the bond, Athos can tell he’s being careful. “Can I get you anything?”

“No need.”

“Alright. Can I sit?”

Athos bites his tongue on asking why Aramis can’t just sit in the chair, that’s currently empty; and swings his legs down and off the sofa so that Aramis can have their space.

He certainly isn’t prepared for Aramis to reach down, scoop up his legs and put them back on his lap.

“If you don’t understand why the hell I’m doing something, feel free to ask,” Aramis says, and Athos can feel the amusement coming through the bond, as well as his slight smile – no, _smirk,_ it’s definitely a smirk.

He raises an eyebrow, feeling something like an echo of his usual self. “What are you doing, then?”

“Well, you want to lie down,” Aramis replies, “and I want to be close to you. So this way, we both get what we want.”

New Athos, Athos supposes, would have asked.

It’s not that he isn’t interested, because he is; but like so many things when he’s feeling like this, it gets lost in the fog.

It gets a little easier, he supposes, if he thinks of it as something he’s doing for Aramis, because Aramis deserves to have a soul mate who wants to know why he does things, what’s important to him.

Athos knows it’s important to Aramis that he eats, so he accepts the food that’s put in front of him; and he has a feeling it’s important to Aramis to feel like he’s helping, so when Aramis asks if he wants anything Athos asks for a whisky, and when Aramis first asks if he wants ice and then brings him whisky in a Cognac glass Athos manages not to roll his eyes and reminds himself that at least Aramis got him the Bruichladdich and not the blended stuff, and it’s not Aramis’ fault he doesn’t know.

When Aramis starts yawning, it’s Athos that suggests they go to bed, implying together; and he remembers to ask Aramis if he can change his alarm, and Aramis just looks a little amused and says he doesn’t mind trying something else, and he’ll keep trying different things until Athos finds one he doesn’t mind. When they lie down together in the dark Athos makes the extra effort to reach for Aramis’ hand; and when he wakes up gasping at four in the morning, feeling as if the black dog weighing down his shoulders has moved to his chest and is pressing all the air from his lungs, he listens to the sound of Aramis’ regular breathing and concentrates on not waking him until the pressure eases just a little.

The next day is a little better. Athos manages to take a shower, though he still doesn’t do much of anything.

Aramis comes home with a bag of tea lights and sets a few of them out on the coffee table; and when he comes to sit down, Athos just lifts his legs up long enough for Aramis to get in position beneath them.

The day after that Aramis has off, and he goes down the shops and back and does a fry-up while Athos is still asleep, and brings it to him in bed. Athos gives him a kiss on the cheek in return and feels Aramis light up with a surprised joy that reverberates in Athos’ mind long after Aramis spills sausage fat on his own duvet and lets out a long string of colourful Spanish cursing from which Athos thinks he picks out something to do with Jesus and mothers.

He’s feeling a little bit better after that, well enough to get dressed and sit on the sofa with the Independent crossword for the sake of appearing to be doing something; but when his phone rings (Porthos, it’s always Porthos, or sometimes his lawyer) he realises he’s not _that_ much better, the idea of even speaking to Porthos sending anxiety prickling up his spine.

“Shall I get it?” Aramis asks; and Athos replies in the affirmative, feeling a rush of gratitude as Aramis practically bounds over to Athos’ phone and picks it up with a flourish, probably over the moon at the thought of speaking to someone who isn’t Athos.

“Porthos! It’s Aramis,” he says needlessly, as if he could ever be mistaken for Athos anyway. “I’m good, thanks, and you? Just a sec.” He covers the mouthpiece and mouths something at Athos which looks like _Can I tell him?_ , and Athos nods tiredly, and puts his feet back in Aramis’ lap because it’s definitely easier than having to explain things himself.

“He’s not up to coming to the phone right now, I’m afraid. He’s had a rough few days,” Aramis says – more diplomatically than he deserves, Athos decides. “But you can absolutely talk to me. Mmhm. Yes! Absolutely. I’m off on Sunday, though I can’t promise… no, of course. You should come over, I’ll cook something. Really? Do you know why?” His eyes flick to Athos, a clear sign. “I’ll ask. Yeah, that much is clear. No, I am. Honestly.” A small, private smile, and his free hand caresses Athos’ ankle through the wool of the blanket. “I’m glad, and not just for my sake. You’re a great guy, and I’d much rather have you as a friend than another one of my three-month wonders. Alright. Yeah, one of us will call you about Sunday. Speak to you soon. Bye.”

Aramis hangs up, leaves Athos’ phone on the arm of the sofa. “Porthos was asking if the three of us would like to get together,” he explains, turning back to Athos. “I said maybe Sunday, if you were well enough, to keep it open and we’d let him know. I invited him for dinner, but he said you don’t like him coming over. Can I ask why?”

Athos has to take a moment to breathe, letting his hand clench in the wool of the blanket as he prepares himself.

This is his first test, he supposes, of whether he can stand up to the demands of being New Athos. Whether he can bear to let Aramis into the inner workings of his messed-up mind, the ridiculous things that make his heart pound and his breath run short.

If it were easy, he reminds himself, it would never have come up.

Beneath the blanket, Aramis’ fingers push up inside the leg of his jeans, encircling his bare ankle.

“When I first moved here,” he begins haltingly, choosing the least painful event of around that time as his starting point, “Porthos did – almost everything. I was significantly worse than I am now. And I owe him – a lot for it. More than I could ever express.” He pauses, bites his lip, trying to think how to explain. “When I improved enough that I was working again, leaving the house, we started to meet elsewhere. Because I could, I suppose, in the beginning. After that, it became… easier for him not to come here at all.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Aramis frowns, his grip tightening a little on Athos’ ankle as he brushes his thumb along the skin of the inside – it’s sensitive, more than Athos would have expected, and it’s an effort for him not to jerk his foot away. “In what way was it easier?”

 _And now we come to it_.

If he wants to stop being Old Athos and start being New Athos, these are the changes he has to make to get there. Small, painful changes, one after the other after the other.

“One of the things I’ve observed about myself in the last few years,” he says, eyes firmly on the check of the tartan blanket, wishing for a fresh drink, “is that it’s much easier to maintain a habit than it is to begin something new. When Porthos and I stopped meeting here and began to meet elsewhere, we changed our habit, and thus it was difficult to revert.”

_But that’s not the whole truth, is it?_

He takes a deep breath, and ploughs on.

“It was the better version of me that went to visit Porthos, rather than the other way round. I feared that by having Porthos come to me… I ran the risk of reversing that change.”

He holds himself tense, and waits for Aramis’ judgement.

“Oh, Athos,” Aramis exclaims, voice full of sympathy, “that makes total sense.”

“No it doesn’t,” Athos replies baldly, too surprised to remember to be polite. “It’s pure superstition.”

“No, but it’s completely natural, that’s my point. I did a lot of reading about the human brain a few years ago,” Aramis explains – “this is a thing called patternicity. As a species we’ve adapted far quicker than we’ve evolved, and we’re stuck with primitive-style brains in a modern society, that doesn’t complement them at all. Identifying patterns like that – avoiding the situations that are linked with bad experiences – is what would have kept you alive millions of years ago. So from that angle, yes, it _does_ make total sense. The fact that Porthos visiting here has no effect on your mental health notwithstanding.”

Athos just about has time to start feeling very stupid indeed when Aramis continues, “Also, can I point something out?”

“Sure?”

“This is a different situation. This isn’t Porthos visiting you, this is Porthos visiting _us_. He’s not coming over to help you keep on top of things, you’ve got me for that now. Instead, we’ll pick a good day and we’ll have a great time with the three of us, and you know what? I bet that seeing you happy will be more than enough reward for everything he’s helped you with before.”

Aramis is smiling at him expectantly; but Athos is speechless.

The only thing penetrating the hazy realisation that it’s okay, that for the first time he’s said what’s _really_ on his mind and had his worries soothed, that even should the anxiety return he now has something to fight it with, is gratitude to Aramis for – well, _all_ of it.

 _Aramis likes touch,_ he thinks, and gets up on his knees so that he can wrap his arms around him.

The sudden burst of joy illuminating his mind is enough to bring a smile to Athos’ lips as well as Aramis wraps his own arms around Athos’ back, resting his head against Athos’ for a few moments.

It feels _safe_ here; and what on earth was he thinking, to think he could do without this?

He ends up leaning half against Aramis and half against the sofa, his feet up still under the blanket and one of Aramis’ arms slung over his chest; and if anyone had asked him before now, Athos would have said it would have made him feel trapped, but he finds it makes him feel strong again.

If this is New Athos too, he decides – well, it’s about time.


	16. Chapter 16

Bolstered by his success in sharing his thoughts, the following evening Athos tells Aramis about his theory of Old Athos and New Athos, in the hope that the act of explaining it to someone else can bring about some much-needed clarity.

“It’s just a framing device, of course,” he finishes. “To help me keep on top of things.”

“It sounds like a good idea,” Aramis replies, reaching across the kitchen table for Athos’ hand. “So what is the new Athos going to do differently than the old?”

“Well… I’m still working it out,” Athos confesses, as Aramis runs tickly fingers over the sensitive skin of his palm. “Face up to my demons, I suppose. Be honest about how I feel, and why. Learn to talk about emotions in the first place. I – know that it’s not always as rational as I’d like, so I appreciate that I have someone to be my sanity check, if you like.”

“Of course,” Aramis replies easily. “What can I do to help?”

Athos stops short of quite saying _be more like Porthos,_ because he realises it makes little sense out of context; but the underlying principles, he supposes, are still useful. “Keep me honest. If I tell you I’m alright because it’s easier, and you know that I’m not – call me on it, if not at the time then later on. If I can’t talk about it, I should admit that, to both myself and to you. And – ask me why. Make sure I ask you why. The more we understand each other, the better we’ll function.”

The smile that blossoms on Aramis’ face is enough to make Athos’ breath catch.

“You’re wonderful, you know that?”

Fortunately Athos is saved from having to answer by the beeping of the kitchen timer, and it gives him a couple of minutes to compose himself while he strains the pasta, and Aramis tastes the arrabbiata sauce and winks at him before kissing his fingertips with a flourish. It could only have been more ridiculous if he’d actually said _bellissimo_ , Athos decides, letting the corner of his mouth curl up as he notices Aramis’ lips are suddenly very red from the pasta sauce; and he turns away quickly, managing to catch his hand on the hot pan in his confusion.

While this saves Athos from giving away what he was thinking, the downside is that Aramis immediately goes into full-on nurse mode and tries to make Athos hold his hand under the cold tap for the full ten minutes, when Athos isn’t sure he’s ever seen anybody bother with it for longer than about thirty seconds in his life.

He protests, but Aramis is unimpressed; and Athos supposes he’s probably used to stubborn patients. In the end, they compromise at five minutes, after which Athos presses his frozen fingers to the back of Aramis’ neck in revenge.

It’s over dinner that Aramis suddenly says, “Would you mind if I go out tomorrow night?”

“Not at all,” Athos replies, “what do you have in mind?”

He’s assuming Aramis just means him and not _them_ , anyway, which he decides is for the best right now.

“Oh, my friend Alex invited me out on the tiles. Drinking, dancing, catching up on who’s sleeping with who. You are invited too, of course, but it didn’t seem like your kind of thing?”

“If I never step into another club in my life, that will be fine with me,” Athos replies with feeling.

Their eyes meet, Aramis grins, and Athos would be tempted to reach for Aramis’ hand if he wasn’t busy eating.

“I have a proposal,” Aramis says. “If we’re going to talk about feelings more, then we should start small and build up. So, right now I’m feeling relieved that I chose right when I decided that saying _I_ was going clubbing and running the risk of you feeling sidelined was better than asking if you wanted to go clubbing _with_ me, and making you have to say no.”

“And I’m relieved that I’m not expected to go clubbing,” Athos replies, with a half-smile; and he’s having a sip of his wine when he decides that he’s feeling good, better than he has in days, and he can afford to go a step further. “And – I’m glad that you feel you can still do your own thing. That you’ve not put your life entirely to one side because of me. I wouldn’t want that.”

He can’t help thinking of Anne, and of how wrapped up in each other they were, to the exclusion of all else; how he’d thought it was the pinnacle of romance, and how remembering it now makes his blood run cold.

Aramis’ warm fingers curling round his wrist snaps him out of it.

“What was that feeling, just then?”

“I’m – not ready to talk about it yet,” Athos manages, though his throat’s tight with the words, and he can’t help tensing, waiting for the fallout.

But Aramis simply says, “Okay,” and brushes his fingers once more over the inside of Athos’ wrist before he goes back to eating his pasta without another word.

In the last four years Athos has learned, logically, how relationships should and shouldn’t work. That having boundaries is healthy, not a sign of mistrust.

He wonders if he will ever know that instinctively as well.

For now, he drains his glass.

“Oh, by the way, I had a look at the telly,” Aramis says. “The plug’s not fused. So I’m afraid it’s probably just borked. I don’t know if it’s worth trying to get someone to look at it or not.”

“I doubt it,” Athos replies, glad of the change of subject. “If you fancy choosing another, I’ll order it.”

Aramis frowns sharply. “You sure? I know you said you don’t work a lot.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s fine,” Athos replies vaguely. He just needs to check there’s enough in his main account to cover it before he orders, is all, and he can’t remember the last time he bought anything other than food anyway. “Pick a good one. Something that won’t break in two years.”

“Alright,” Aramis agrees, although there’s something careful in his tone. “Look, we probably should have talked about money before now, actually. What’s the rent like on this place? I’m sure I should be contributing, at least.”

“Oh, I own it. Outright, that is,” Athos replies. “No mortgage.”

“Okay.” Aramis puts down his cutlery. “Forgive me for being gauche, but – how much money do you have, exactly?”

It’s not an unreasonable question, Athos supposes, though a small, snobbish part of him always turns its nose up at the idea of discussing something so mercenary, for which he fully blames his parents.

Despite his inability to live in it functionally, he’s not one of those clueless rich people who’s so disconnected from the modern world that he doesn’t understand that other people _do_ have to think about money, and that it would no doubt be insufferable of him to say he genuinely has no idea.

The problem is – he sort of doesn’t. He can’t even remember how much he sold the family home for in the end, though he’s sure his lawyer tried to get him to pay some sort of attention to it at the time.

He shrugs his shoulders, a little helplessly. “I – have investments?”

“Wow. You really have no idea, do you?”

“In my defence, when I sold the – my previous house and bought this flat, money was hardly the main thing on my mind,” Athos points out, refilling their glasses to try and hide the fact that he is feeling just a little defensive. “And since then, it’s not really been a concern. I have no big purchases to make. I have an investment manager, and I let her manage. Though I fear she can probably tell I never read her reports.”

He puts the bottle back down, to see that Aramis is looking at him intently.

“I’d like to ask. You’ve mentioned your old house twice now, and every time you hesitate. Why is that?”

“It was the family home,” Athos replies, making himself meet Aramis’ eyes. “I try not to use that phrase, because it makes me sound insufferable. Also because… I would rather not be reminded of it.”

After that, everything feels just a little bit greyer and more hopeless, and after dinner lets Aramis manoeuvre him over to the sofa with another glass of wine before Aramis goes to browse his CD collection; and Athos tries as hard as he can to appreciate the gesture and not point out that _The Four Seasons_ is hardly appropriate to his mood, which would probably be much better served by some Leonard Cohen, if he had to listen to anything at all.

He lets Aramis balance his laptop on top of his legs as he looks at televisions, and thinks about how this is doomed.

He doesn’t know what made him think he could do this. It’s been what, four days, and he’s been a wreck, even worse than he was before. He can’t even remember the past, can’t even remember _her_ without breaking out into a cold sweat, without forgetting how to breathe. How is he ever –

Aramis puts his laptop down on the coffee table.

“Okay. You need to talk to me,” he says, running a hand through his hair – and Athos realises with a spike of guilt that Aramis looks _scared,_ has _he_ done this to him? “Because I can’t – I’m trying to be as patient as I can, but I can’t just sit here while you’re feeling like this. So, just. Let me help.”

“I’m not sure you can,” Athos manages, his hand gripping the stem of his glass.

“ _Bullshit._ ”

The tone of Aramis’ voice is shocking – as is the sudden flash of anger through the bond – and Athos fumbles his glass as he puts it down, as if all of his muscles have stopped obeying orders. He’s shaking, he notes vaguely as he waits for Aramis to shout at him, for him to give up, to walk out.

What he isn’t expecting is for Aramis to fall to his knees before him on the ground, taking Athos’ shaking hands in his.

“That’s bullshit,” Aramis repeats softly, all the anger gone. “You told me to call you on your bullshit, so I’m going to.” His nerves are clear, but he ploughs on. “You told me on Monday you wanted me to help. So if you want me to stop helping, you’re going to have to explain to me what’s changed. Otherwise I’m just going to assume that you’re having a small crisis of confidence because you haven’t got magically better in a couple of days, and I’m going to ignore you completely.”

“And in these couple of days I’ve barely done a thing,” Athos argues, trying to ignore the feeling Aramis on his knees gives him, unwanted memories making his stomach churn. “I’ve just lain here and made you do everything, what kind of partner –”

He stops himself, but it’s too late; Aramis’ eyes widen, and Athos knows he’s given himself away.

“What kind of _partner_ are you? Jesus Christ, Athos.” Aramis shakes Athos’ hands back and forth as if he’d rather like to be shaking his shoulders. “Listen. Listen closely. I do not give a single shit whether you work or you clean the house – which you did, by the way – or you spend your days reading and looking out of the window. None of that matters to me in any way. What I _do_ want is for you to be happy, because you have as much of a right to it as anyone. And I know you’re not well and that you might not be happy today, or tomorrow, but I believe you’ll be happy one day. And unless you can come up with a _very_ good argument to convince me otherwise, I’m going to help you work on that. So. Right now, where do we start?”

“First, you get off your knees,” Athos manages, too much shame and relief and awkwardness warring inside him for him to make much sense of anything for the moment, “and let’s change the fucking music.”

“Come on then,” Aramis replies, managing to get to his own feet and then pull Athos up by his hands, though there’s barely room for them both between the coffee table and the sofa, “and next time at least tell me, don’t just sit there silently hating it.”

“I wanted to appreciate the gesture,” Athos argues.

“You can appreciate the gesture without putting up with something that’s making you miserable. That’s all you have to say. ‘I appreciate that you want to put some of my music on for me, Aramis, but I’m happier without it’.”

“Are you impersonating me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Aramis winks. “Now, what would you like?”

Athos is already crouching down beside the CDs, scanning the shelf carefully until his eye catches on a familiar spine and he thinks, _yes._

_Do I dare?_

It’s been so long – and if he wants to become someone new, perhaps it is time to try again.

He turns off the Vivaldi and switches it for _Songs for a Room_ ; and as soon as Leonard Cohen’s voice comes through the speakers, easing into the first line of _Bird on a Wire_ , something slots back into place in Athos’ heart that has been misaligned longer than he could say.

Aramis opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask what they’re listening to – and Athos immediately presses a finger against his parted lips and thinks at him, _Shh, just let him sing._

He knows this song in his bones, he’s been carrying it deep inside him for most of his life, deeper even than she could touch, and he wants his soul mate to know it too.

There’s still a sliver of the old romantic in him somewhere, he realises at last: he kept it safe in this song, in this tune, these words, so deep inside him that he’d even forgotten it was still locked up there, just waiting for him to turn the key.

He puts his hands on Aramis’ waist.

And because he is surely too old for this and still feels faintly ridiculous, Athos waits for _I will make it all up to thee_ before he kisses him – and it’s just lips on lips but he doesn’t have the words for it somehow, between the stubble unfamiliar against his beard and the sound of surprise that dies in Aramis’ throat, as his elation explodes in Athos’ mind and he can’t help smiling into the kiss, mirroring it back at Aramis and feeling it mirrored back at him in turn, until he’s sure they must be glowing with it, shining in the night as Aramis’ hands come up to cover his own on Aramis’ hips.

When the feelings start to overwhelm, he rests his forehead against Aramis’ and breathes raggedly out, murmuring, “I can’t promise anything,” giving in just a little to all the doubts and fears that are still churning inside him.

“So don’t,” Aramis replies – so simply – and kisses him again.

As he reaches up to clutch at Aramis’ back and hold him close, Athos hears above the rush of Aramis’ joy in his mind and the drum of his own beating heart, the closing words of the song:

_I have tried in my way to be free._


	17. Chapter 17

“Before you say anything,” Athos whispers, above the opening chords of _Story of Isaac_ , “will you listen to the whole album with me?”

“If I can kiss you at the same time,” Aramis whispers back, with a wicked grin; but he lets Athos lead him by the hand back to the sofa, lies across Athos’ lap with his head against the armrest and closes his eyes, prepared to let Athos set the pace.

Athos tangles his fingers in Aramis’ hair, smoothing the curls back off his face, and tries to just lose himself in the music, like his heart’s an atrophied muscle slowly regaining its strength.

He knows this, he reminds himself, he just needs to remember how it goes.

He kisses Aramis again to _You Know Who I Am_ , and doesn’t stop.

“I’ve been listening to this for most of my life,” Athos says afterwards, into the silence. “Instead of talking about how I felt – I had Leonard Cohen, who already knew. That was normally enough.”

He can feel Aramis’ curiosity through the bond; though he says nothing, only squeezing Athos’ fingers, silently encouraging him to go on.

“After my – wife left, I listened to _I’m Your Man_ on repeat for a fortnight. It was – worse than I could have imagined, but – he was there too. He understood.

“Until my brother died.”

It’s the first time he’s ever said it aloud.

“I had to identify the body. There was no-one else.” The words don’t want to come out, but he forces them, a death grip on Aramis’ fingers. “When I finally got back to the house, I put that album on. But he didn’t understand any more. I’d gone somewhere he couldn’t follow.” His throat’s tight and burning sour but he makes himself finish, now that he’s come so far, got to the point he wanted to make. “I didn’t dare try before now. But I’m – glad I came back.”

“So am I,” Aramis murmurs. “What was your brother’s name?”

“Tom. He was called Tom.”

It still hurts to say.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to listen to _I’m Your Man_ again, but…

At least he has this.

When they go to bed later, Aramis getting under his own duvet, Athos feels a slight pang in his chest and almost says, _you don’t need that, share mine_ ; but something holds him back.

 _One thing at a time,_ he supposes, he’s already taken one big step today.

As if to illustrate the point, Aramis leans over and kisses him on the nose.

“Just because I can,” he grins, in response to Athos’ nonplussed expression. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but there’s nothing I love more than kissing. I could kiss for hours. For years.”

 _I hope we will_ , Athos thinks.

Aloud, he says, “Is that right,” and raises an eyebrow; but when Aramis reaches for him, he reaches out as well.

It’s much later than it should be when Aramis can finally tear his mouth away from Athos’ long enough to fall asleep; but as he listens to Aramis’ breathing deepen and settle, Athos decides that if Aramis doesn’t mind then he doesn’t either.

When he wakes the next morning, dragging himself back to consciousness with the echo of Aramis’ lips against his forehead and the closing front door, he thinks for the first time how nice it would be if Aramis had been able to stay right here with him.

While he’s feeling up to it, he strips the bare sheet from Aramis’ bed, and turns it back into a sofa.

It’ll probably be a nightmare finding enough space for both their clothes in his room – rather, it’ll probably be a nightmare going through all the things he no longer wears and deciding whether they’re worth keeping – but he remembers Aramis’ offer to help him with the kitchen, and decides that hopefully means Aramis will help with this too.

Pulling apart the threads of his old life piece by piece, and reworking them into something that’s both of theirs.

Not so long ago, the idea would have appalled and terrified him in equal measure, but now that he understands just how much he _wants_ this he barely recognises that man any longer.

It’s not such a bad thing, Athos supposes. It means he’s moving forward.

He takes advantage of feeling better to greet Aramis with a kiss at the front door before helping him cook dinner, where he’s really more of a kitchen assistant than anything; and afterwards he sits in the armchair with a glass of wine and the _Soul bonds in Depth_ book, watching as Aramis goes into the spare room, comes immediately back out again, walks over to Athos and kisses him soundly.

“You’re welcome,” Athos says, feeling himself smile. “But where to put your things is going to take more time than you have now.”

He watches as Aramis disappears again, coming back out a few minutes later in an absurdly tight T-shirt and a pair of chocolate-brown leather trousers; and Athos decides he shouldn’t be surprised really as Aramis stops short of actually posing, but instead leans casually against the doorframe and says expectantly, “What do you think?”

Athos says, “Did you borrow that T-shirt from a small child?”

While he’s not really interested in clothing, he _does_ know good tailoring, and that is decidedly not it.

“I’ll have you know that in my pre-soul bond days, this T-shirt was a magnet for interesting and attractive people,” Aramis replies archly, relenting after a moment and walking over for another kiss. “But things have changed, and now I’m afraid I’ll just have to disappoint them,” he murmurs against Athos’ lips, his tone sultry.

“Right,” Athos manages, suddenly flustered.

Aramis has always been so careful with him, so patient – it’s never occurred to Athos before that he might have a predatory side.

Athos feels rather like he imagines one would if they bought a kitten, for example, and got it home to only discover that they’d in fact been sold a tiger cub.

Fortunately, it’s not long until Aramis breezes out of the door, after another lingering kiss and a breathless promise not to have _too_ much fun without him; and Athos pours himself another glass of wine, puts _Songs for a Room_ on loud and has a bath with the door open, letting the warm water soothe his body and the music soothe his soul.

He takes a novel to bed, and turns the light off early; and not expecting to sleep straight away, it surprises him when he’s woken by the closing of the front door, followed by a thud and a muffled curse.

Bloody typical, that one of the few times he gets to sleep in a reasonable time frame he’s immediately woken again.

Athos sighs, pulling the duvet over his head as he suffers through the noise of the bathroom extractor fan and the toilet flushing and Aramis doing God knows what else; and he’s just about relaxed again when Aramis gets into bed behind him and reaches out to touch his neck with freezing fingers.

“Jesus Christ!” he hisses, his entire body jerking.

“Shit, sorry,” Aramis whispers, and Athos hears him rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them. When he reaches out this time it’s for Athos’ shoulder, stroking over the fabric of his T-shirt. “I didn’t wake you, did I? How was your evening?”

“Yes, you did wake me,” Athos snaps, shrugging Aramis’ hand away. “Now just go to sleep, will you?”

“Fine,” Aramis retorts, turning abruptly away with a spike of hurt; and Athos ignores him at first, figuring his ego’s just bruised, but when a few minutes have passed and Aramis is still radiating hurt, Athos realises with a sinking feeling that there’s something really wrong here – and he seems to have caused it.

He reaches out, and tentatively puts a hand in the centre of Aramis’ upper back, between his shoulder blades, where his skin’s bare above the line of the duvet; and he’s still trying to work out what he’s going to say but it seems the touch of his hand alone is enough, as Aramis flops immediately onto his back.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re trying to sleep, it’s just… Can I have a hug?”

“Come here,” Athos relents, as Aramis rolls forward and buries his way gratefully into Athos’ arms, and Athos kisses his forehead which is salty with sweat, impossibly glad that with Aramis he doesn’t seem to need to find the words, that touch alone makes a difference.

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh, I suppose so, it was just…” Aramis sighs. “Alright, it’s confession time for me now, I guess. So here’s the story. Before I met you I was… a bit slutty, really. I was waiting for my soul mate, and I determined to have as much sex as I could in the meantime. Though I do like going out for its own sake, it was always to pull as much as anything else. And while I don’t want to go back to that, not at all, I hadn’t realised it’d be such an… adjustment.”

Athos frowns. “I don’t think I quite follow.”

“Alright. Same bar, same alcohol level. Same arrangement of scantily-clad, attractive people all writhing to the beat, ripe with possibility. And for the first time ever – thoroughly off-limits.”

“Oh,” Athos replies, mind working double-time to catch up. “But – you’ve had relationships before.”

“Only open ones,” Aramis confesses. “Where we slept with other people. Normally together, but…”

 _But not always_ , is the clear implication.

“Right,” Athos says, because he thinks he has to say something but really has no idea what he’s supposed to say to a revelation like this.

He’s not angry, certainly; he’s in no position to be, not when he’s hardly a shining example of being functional in relationships himself. If anything, it’s probably something of a relief to hear that he’s not the only one for whom this whole soul bond business is more complicated than it could have been.

“Did you want to? To –” he refuses to say _pull_ – “meet someone?”

“No, of course not!” Aramis insists, nuzzling his head against Athos’ neck in a way that reminds Athos slightly of a cat. “Well. A very small bit of me did. The rest of me just felt guilty. Everyone around me was getting off with each other, and I was just standing there, feeling… lonely.”

“Look, you’re still your own person,” Athos says cautiously, because he has to do this, doesn’t he, even though the thought of it makes him feel vaguely sick inside. “You didn’t promise me fidelity.”

He realises it’s completely the wrong thing to say when Aramis pulls back from their embrace and stares up at him, shocked, and newly hurt.

“You’re joking,” Aramis insists, as if he’s trying to convince himself. “Why would you even say that, when I can tell exactly how it makes you feel?!”

“Because it’s _true_ ,” Athos replies, trying his best to keep his voice level and not let his emotions out. “I don’t want to trap you in something you never agreed to.”

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Athos, I want _you!_ ” Aramis snaps in frustration, throwing up his hands. “I didn’t want _any_ of those people, not really, I just felt out of place. Why would I want anyone else, when I have my soul mate?”

“But we’re not even sleeping together,” Athos points out.

“No, but… look.” Aramis pauses awkwardly, runs a hand through his hair. “The last thing I want to do is pressure you, you know that, don’t you? But you kissed me. So I’m… sort of optimistic.” The pad of his thumb circles across the soft hollow beneath Athos’ ear. “If we get further down the line and it becomes clear you just don’t want to, then… yeah. Maybe we should talk about it. But for now I’d like to hold onto my dream a little longer, okay?”

“Okay,” Athos replies, and giving into his instinct, pulls Aramis forward to rest his head against Athos’ chest again, cradling it with his hand and weaving his fingers up and in through Aramis’ curls.

“And – I don’t care about the sex. Not really,” Aramis mutters against Athos’ chest, and he has to hold himself very quiet and very still to make out the words. “I mean, obviously I want to, but if I _had_ to then I could go without ­– as long as I get this. Hugs, kisses… physical affection. I think I’d fade away without it. And I know you’re finding this difficult, so I’m going to help you, and tell you that this is what I need from you. Your attention, and your affection.”

“Okay. I’ll do my best,” Athos replies, leaning over to kiss Aramis’ hair. Hoping he _can,_ that he’s not just too standoffish, too used to being alone.

“You’ll do just fine,” Aramis promises, lifting his head and taking Athos’ jaw in his hand again. “I know you will,” he insists, before pressing his lips to Athos’.

All their kisses so far have been gentle, closed-mouthed, affectionate things; and while this one starts out much the same, there’s a new urgency in Aramis’ movements, a new heat registering in Athos’ mind, and when Aramis kisses his mouth open and licks his way inside Athos cautiously follows suit, letting himself be led. One of his hands is steadying Aramis’ shoulder and the other buried in his hair, when Aramis moves his head and Athos’ fingers catch on a knot and tug.

Athos opens his mouth to apologise when he realises that the whimper in Aramis’ throat, what he’s feeling through the bond, is not pain at all but arousal.

Startled, he drops his hand.

“Sorry,” Aramis mumbles, sounding a little shamefaced, “I got carried away.”

“I let you, though,” Athos points out, gently massaging the muscle in Aramis’ shoulder with finger and thumb. “And I suppose it’s only to be expected.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re ready though, does it?”

_Well, no._

He’ll have to start thinking about it soon, Athos realises as he lies properly back down, lets Aramis settle against him. He’s had so much on his plate already – but now that they’re kissing (and he likes it, he _does_ , feeling Aramis in his mind every time, warm and safe and loved), he’s starting to realise that there’s room for more in his head than just his own issues. Room to think about whether he wants this.

He owes it to Aramis, too, to give him the chance. To see if Athos actually can be that man.


	18. Chapter 18

Athos’ opportunity comes sooner than he’s expecting, as he’s lying still-drowsy in bed the next morning, listening to the muffled patter of water as Aramis turns on the shower.

Things are going well, he decides, and the kissing seems to help. The biological imperative striking again, he supposes; though as is no doubt intended, the more they spend long minutes with their lips pressed together and limbs entwined, basking in the warmth and security that fills them up like a drug, the less Athos can rouse himself to concern.

But the kissing entirely aside, they’re also learning how to live together. Slowly they’re becoming familiar with each other’s patterns and preferences, adapting and accommodating. Aramis is coming to respect the fact that Athos finds sleeping only second in difficulty to getting up again, and that he wants to be left to it and disturbed as little as possible; and Athos can respect the fact that Aramis still feels the need to smooth his hair off his forehead and place a kiss there as he gets up, as long as he stops short of trying to make conversation.

Though Athos barely trusts anything that feels like happiness – finds himself constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, and pitch him right back into a level of depression that would try the patience of even Aramis at his most amenable – he’s starting to believe more and more that the two of them together, as it is right now, could just work. Not because he _understands,_ exactly, why Aramis would choose to be with him, but because he can at least accept the sincerity of Aramis’ desire for just that, his belief in the power of their bond.

And as Porthos pointed out to him so astutely, it’s hardly like it matters why in any case. Whether it’s just biology or not then they’re both still stuck with it, and still have to make the best of their situation.

It’s just that their best is rather better than Athos had been expecting.

Which reminds him, Porthos is supposed to be coming for dinner, he’ll need to get up soon and send him a text. Not quite yet though, he decides, it’s warm beneath the covers and he can afford to take another quarter-hour.

He shifts, rolling over onto his other side, biting his lip as his morning erection brushes more firmly against the duvet than he’d expected. He’s hard, as he sometimes is in the mornings; though normally any arousal goes away fairly quickly when he ignores it. It’s not normally this – insistent.

It’s only when he notices the arousal is coming through the bond that he realises just what Aramis is either doing in the shower, or just about to do.

Athos shifts onto his back again, not quite sure how to feel for a moment.

For all the things they’ve talked about, they’ve never talked about this. The first time it happened, Athos was embarrassed enough to continue pretending it hadn’t; and he assumes Aramis took that as tacit permission, as he’s kept on doing it ever since, a few times a week. Which Athos doesn’t begrudge him, exactly; it’s not as though he can’t block him out. Besides, Aramis lives here too and has a right to a private life, and to do something which is perfectly normal – though masturbation for Athos himself has always been a slightly furtive and dirty-feeling activity, which he blames thoroughly on boarding school.

He never touched himself during his marriage – for reasons he tries not to think about – and afterwards, saw as little point in it as he did in everything else. Between the depression and the heavy drinking he can’t even remember the last time he bothered, just treats the occasional bodily emissions that abstention causes with a shrug and a change of underwear.

Arousal, for him, has always been largely a mental thing, greatly improved by having someone in particular in mind; and during that period of his life where he was determined never to feel anything again, it was something he was almost glad to be rid of.

Now, however, he’s poised on the cusp of choosing to let sex back into his life – and perhaps this is as good a place as any to start.

Athos automatically threw up his mental walls as soon as he realised what was happening; but now he finds himself lying here with his hands clasped across his stomach, unusually aware of his hard-on, and wondering what would happen if he didn’t.

He’s not sure if he’d be violating some kind of unwritten code, and the last thing he wants to do is intrude where he isn’t wanted – but Aramis has made it as clear as he thinks he reasonably can that he wants Athos, and that he’d welcome any further intimacy.

Also, he’s come to realise that Aramis doesn’t seem to think about things in terms of privacy and personal space, the way Athos does – in fact, he seems to want as little of both as possible, and it’s just starting to occur to Athos that he may have been projecting his own opinions onto Aramis when he thought about his ‘alone time’ as a private thing.

Perhaps it’s not supposed to be private at all. Perhaps it’s supposed to be an invitation.

Taking a deep breath and tightening the grip of his fingers where they’re interlinked – he’s _not_ going to lose control over this, it’s merely for the sake of observation – Athos counts slowly to ten in his head before relaxing his mind and letting the link between him and Aramis fall open.

His awareness of Aramis’ feelings must have improved more than he’d realised, because Athos finds he can tell the exact moment that Aramis realises Athos is back with him, fully aware and just a little curious.

He doesn’t know quite what he’d been expecting to feel himself, but the near-alarming surge of arousal hits him with such a force that he actually feels winded by it.

 _This must be what mirroring is_ , he thinks dimly, his cock rock-hard in seconds and his mouth falling open on a silent gasp before he even thinks to suppress it; and as he clasps his fingers even tighter to stop him reaching down he wishes he had bothered reading that chapter on physical intimacy after all so he’d at least have been somewhat prepared, because this is –

He’s never felt like this, _never_. He isn’t even touching himself and the arousal’s just building and building, overwhelming him.

Though he doesn’t want to think of Anne, not now or ever, he knows that even at his most desperate, sex with her was always different. That there was something deliberate about it, that his desire came from inside him, from his own conscious mind and the feeling of her body against him.

This is him gasping and sweating beneath the covers, fingers clutching at the material of his T-shirt to stop him touching himself, thoroughly out of control; and though he’s not sure he likes it the way it _feels_ is addictive, better than drinking even, and if this is what it’s like to just lie here and _experience_ then what must it be like to be _touched –_

With a noise half way between a breath and a groan, Athos abruptly comes so hard that it feels like he must have knocked out a couple of brain cells in the process.

He’s still trying to recover his wits when he hears the shower shut off.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, suddenly frantic, practically leaping out of bed to change his boxers, and feeling his stomach drop as he thinks desperately that he should have _said_ something first, no matter how awkward, and not just barged in there and utterly violated Aramis’ privacy, it was inexcusable –

He wrestles his old boxers off and a new pair on, kicking the old pair under the bed and looking up just in time to see Aramis appearing in the doorway in nothing but a towel, staring at Athos as if he’s grown a second head.

Athos tenses all his muscles as if he’s preparing to flee, standing with his hands curling into fists by his sides as he thinks with appalling clarity, _I’ve just ruined everything._

Then Aramis moves, rushing towards him and more or less crashing into his arms, clinging to him and burying his face in Athos’ shoulder. “Oh my God,” he mumbles, and Athos really can’t tell for a moment if the mixture of joy and relief rushing through him is Aramis’ or his own. “Athos. My God.”

Athos clears his throat, hands coming to rest awkwardly on Aramis’ waist. “That was – alright?”

Aramis actually laughs. “ _Alright?!_ Athos, it was _amazing_ , I mean I’d read all about it but I’d never imagined how it would _feel_ , it –” He pulls himself up short, expression creasing. “Are _you_ okay?”

Athos has to think about it for a moment. He feels… _emotional_ , he supposes is the best word for it. Not _bad_ emotional exactly, but shaky and uncertain, which he supposes is what must happen when you come down off such a massive dopamine high. Though he’s working to keep his hands relaxed, he still half-feels as though he’s clutching Aramis to him for dear life.

He racks his brains for something to say that will put Aramis at ease.

“It looks like there’s going to be a lot of laundry in our future.”

Aramis laughs again, the expression on his face impossibly fond, and sending an answering thrum of warmth through Athos’ mind – when he does a visible double-take. “Wait. Did you–?”

“Erm… yes,” Athos admits. “Entirely unlooked-for, as it happens.”

“God. _God_ ,” Aramis says with feeling, the grin on his face irrepressible. “Is it my birthday?”

“I don’t know. When _is_ your birthday?”

“Eighteenth of December. So almost. You?”

“Fifth of May.”

They both fall silent, and just look at each other for a moment, still holding each other in a way that’s more careful than anything else; and Athos’ eye is caught by a stray droplet of water rolling down the side of Aramis’ neck from his still-wet hair, and wonders how it would make him feel if he licked it away.

Aramis shivers.

“Are you cold?” Athos asks, and he’s starting to pull away and look around for another towel when Aramis’ hands tighten around his shoulders, keeping him firmly in place.

“I’m bloody freezing,” he confesses, “but that’s not why I was shivering.”

“Oh. You –”

“Felt that, yes.” Aramis’ eyes grow wider, his expression pleading. “Whatever you were thinking of, please… do it?”

Though it’s definitely tempting, Athos has to be honest with both of them: he’s just not quite ready. He doubts he could get it up again just yet, for one; but more importantly, the prospect of doing something over which he has so little control scares him.

When it happens, he wants it to be more considered, more _deliberate_.

He leans in and kisses Aramis lightly on the mouth, and says, “Let’s get dressed, okay?”

“Okay,” Aramis agrees, with a wry twist of the mouth; and he understands, Athos realises, even if his libido doesn’t agree.

After that, Aramis offers to make brunch, while Athos texts Porthos to tell him it’s fine to come to dinner this evening, and puts some much-needed laundry on; and once they’ve finished eating Athos announces his intention to tackle the question of bedroom storage, and allows himself to bask a little in the way Aramis’ eyes light up at any indication from Athos that he’s working to make Aramis’ position in his life more permanent.

Athos already has a wardrobe, and bedside tables, because he believes it uncivilised not to, but that’s all; and when Aramis opens up the wardrobe doors and takes a critical look inside before announcing that they’re going to need an additional chest of drawers at the very least, Athos just shrugs one shoulder and says, “Fine by me,” because it is, as long as he doesn’t have to be in charge of organisation.

Aramis bends over a little, examining the contents of the wardrobe with interest. “Can I –” he asks, his hands already stroking over a stack of jumpers, and Athos replies in the affirmative and pulls his knees up to his chest on the bed, reasoning that the less of this he has to do himself, the better.

Aramis lifts a navy-blue fine knit jumper off the top of the stack, stroking reverently over the fabric as if it’s some sort of holy relic. “Athos, this is _gorgeous_. Why do I never see you wear any of these?”

“My ex-wife bought them,” Athos answers shortly, ignoring the cold clenching in his chest whenever he thinks about her, looking at his knees for a moment instead of at Aramis. “I thought about replacing them, but it’s never really been a priority.”

When he looks back up Aramis is buried in the jumper up to his elbows, swimming around for the tag, the wonder on his face almost comical. “Jesus Christ, this is _cashmere_ , are you kidding?”

“About replacing them? No.” He could wear them, he supposes, they’re just jumpers; but the few times he’s picked one of them out from the wardrobe, something’s always held him back. “You’re welcome to them, if any of them fit. I think we’re about the same size.”

The expression Aramis turns on him then is one of somebody who’s just been offered something they’re not sure they should accept, but absolutely, desperately want.

“Are you sure?” he says anyway, though it looks like it takes a great deal of effort. “If you won’t wear them, won’t it be just as weird if I do?”

“Frankly, I have no idea. Try one on, and we’ll see.”

Aramis pulls off his hoodie, dumping it unceremoniously on the bed next to Athos, and pulls on the navy blue jumper in one fluid movement; and Athos couldn’t have imagined just how _good_ it would look on him, clinging and skimming in all the right places as it settles over his body, and he wants –

Oh _Jesus._

He realises that Aramis is staring back at him, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t; and Athos has no idea which one of them moves first, but he supposes it must have been Aramis, who’s pushing him back on the bed and straddling his hips as Athos drags him down by the hair to kiss him ferociously, and he’s hard in _seconds,_ Aramis’ hand skimming down his side beneath his cardigan as he kisses Athos’ neck _just there oh God_ and his cock’s aching, pressing painfully against the seam of his jeans as Aramis’ hand brushes over the bare skin above his belt buckle and he’s gasping in Athos’ ear, “Can I – can I –”

Athos dimly remembers wanting to take his time, just a few hours ago; but Aramis is here and he’s _desperate_ for it and he decides he no longer gives a shit.

“Do it,” he growls, and Aramis bites down on Athos’ earlobe as he reaches down to rub a hand over the bulge in Athos’ jeans, and Athos stiffens and comes with a helpless shudder to the sound of Aramis groaning aloud.

It’s as though the force of his orgasm knock his mind and body out of sync for a few moments; and when he starts to make sense of things again Aramis is running his hand over Athos’ bare side, his face buried in Athos’ neck. “Holy shit. Holy _shit,_ Athos, holy shit.”

“Quite,” Athos replies succinctly, his own hands stroking over the cashmere jumper along Aramis’ back, trying to disguise the fact that he seems to be shaking again, and that he wants to cling on and never let go.

“Incredible. Just incredible,” Aramis breathes, the hand that’s not holding him up caressing Athos’ jaw; and it’s just too much for a moment, too intense, and Athos closes his eyes and pulls Aramis close for another kiss until he feels like he might be able to breathe again.

“I think it might be time for me to start working on my control of the link,” Aramis murmurs against his mouth. “We’ll never manage to get our clothes off if we both keep coming in under a minute.”

 _Oh._ “You…”

“Oh yes,” Aramis smiles against his lips. “So these jumpers… did she have a favourite?”

“The mid-blue one,” Athos manages to reply, firmly suppressing the chill he feels at the memory of her picking that jumper out for him, how she only liked him to wear it when they were alone.

He pushes the thought away and focuses on the warmth of Aramis’ body above him, the legs bracketing his hips, bringing him back to the present.

“Okay. So I think that one should go to the charity shop, and the rest stay. How do you feel about the one I’m wearing now? Because I think it would look rather delicious over a blue-grey shirt I saw in there.”

“That sounds fine,” Athos replies, “but didn’t you want to wear this one?”

“Ah. I have another idea,” Aramis replies, eyes sparkling. “Though first I do need a change of underwear.”

“There’s going to be a lot of this, isn’t there?” Athos replies as Aramis clambers off him, though he’s unable to completely suppress a smile at the thought of it.

Aramis winks. “If I have my way? Absolutely.”         


	19. Chapter 19

Athos quickly comes to realise that he’s created a monster.

He also quickly comes to realise that he’s not given Aramis nearly enough credit for the amount of effort he must have expended on not thinking about Athos in a remotely sexual manner since they first bonded, if the sheer force of the change is anything to go by.

After the third time that afternoon that he notices a speculative thought coming into his mind that’s distinctly sexual in nature, Athos surreptitiously puts on his watch (which he’s not sure he’s bothered wearing in weeks) so that he can time how often it is that Aramis thinks about having sex with him.

By the time Aramis has got half of his clothes hung and folded in the wardrobe, and the other half in a couple of cardboard boxes that Athos had hanging out in the downstairs storage cupboard in lieu of an eventual chest of drawers, Athos has concluded it’s an average of about once every ten minutes.

Which is all very well right now, Athos decides, but Porthos will be arriving in a few hours and it’s just starting to hit him exactly how much he has to worry about before then; and when Aramis starts to make noises about going to the supermarket, Athos smiles apologetically and says he doesn’t quite feel up to going outside, so that he at least has an hour alone in his head.

He’s feeling fairly calm about the sex part, he decides, all things considered – probably because it doesn’t really feel like sex, not yet. If he had to classify it, he’d probably just call it wandering hands, albeit with the addition of uncontrollable orgasms.

What he thinks of as _sex_ – being naked, in all senses of the word, vulnerable, entirely at another’s mercy once more – well.

While he doesn’t feel ready for it, and isn’t sure if he ever will be… he imagines that if he ever were, it’d be with Aramis.

Aramis who’s an open book, and terrible at hiding anything he feels – and not only because of their bond, but because it would never occur to him to do so. Who believes that where they belong is inside each other’s heads; and the thought used to terrify him but Athos has come to find it somewhat reassuring, because he knows it means that Aramis could never say one thing and think another, could never deceive him as deliberately and thoroughly as Anne did.

And though he’d worried that Aramis being a man would turn out to be some kind of intractable obstacle, the truth is that he… likes it. He likes the way that even with what little they’ve done together, the whole sensory experience is completely different. Aramis’ warmth, his scent, the height and the broadness of his chest, the roughness of his jaw and the timbre of his voice… no, there’s no question that Aramis will ever remind him of her.

Well, that’s something, at least. And now there’s just the small issue of the fact that Porthos is coming over for dinner with him and Aramis. Porthos his best friend, and Aramis’ ex-boyfriend; and Athos doesn’t think any of his life experience so far has taught him what the social rules are for entertaining your partner’s ex, even when they’re someone who knows you almost as well as you know yourself.

He decides to take a tip from his mother and stress-clean the entire flat.

He’s scrubbing the bathtub when Aramis gets back, and though he’s expecting Aramis to come over and greet him with a kiss, he certainly isn’t expecting Aramis to lean in with a hand on his waist and press that kiss to the nape of Athos’ neck, making him shiver.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Aramis’ voice is low and sultry in Athos’ ear, the intent in it enough to make his cock start swelling already. “Like that, do you?”

Athos frowns. “Do I like what?”

“The back of your neck,” Aramis clarifies, in something more like his normal voice. “Are you sensitive there?”

“I really have no idea,” Athos confesses, thoroughly confused. Is this one of those things everyone else knows, that nobody’s ever told him about?

He turns around to see Aramis give him a searching look, as if he just needs a moment to establish that Athos really isn’t kidding. “Alright,” Aramis replies carefully, “so everyone has their own individual pleasure points on the body, where they’re most sensitive. And I’m not talking about the genitals. I’m thinking the neck, say, or the ears. I had a lover once who liked me to lick her inside of her wrists as she came. The places you don’t expect.”

“I see,” Athos replies. He knows all of Anne’s, still, though he’d quite happily score the knowledge from his mind if he thought it possible.

It’s never occurred to him before that he doesn’t know his own.

It must be clear what he’s thinking from his continued hesitation, as Aramis presses in to kiss him tenderly, tugging just a little at Athos’ lower lip, which is enough in itself to send a small bolt of lust shooting through him. “If you don’t know, then I’ll look forward to finding them,” he promises generously; and Athos kisses him gratefully back, relieved by just how patient Aramis is being with his continued hopelessness.

Aramis deepens the kiss, encouraging Athos to part his lips and darting his tongue inside, and Athos is vaguely aware that the two of them must paint a pretty ridiculous picture: they’re necking like teenagers while he’s still wearing rubber gloves and holding a cloth in one hand, gripping the sides of the bathtub as Aramis slowly presses the length of his body against him, groaning deep and low as both their heads start to swim with desire; and Athos just about has enough composure left to pull his mouth away and say, “I’m not going to keep doing this all afternoon, not when we have a guest coming.”

Aramis sighs, resting their foreheads together. “You’re right. Much as I would love to argue, we’ve both got things to do. Though I hope we’ll get everything done in time to have a moment together before he arrives?”

“Well, we don’t exactly need very long,” Athos concedes.

Aramis brushes a gentle kiss against Athos’ mouth. “Then I’ll leave you to it for now, and make a start on the food.”

Athos turns back to the task at hand, and is just rinsing the bathtub when there’s another surge of arousal through the bond, strong enough to have his cock pulsing uncomfortably in his jeans.

He thinks for a moment that Aramis is actually touching himself – but no, as he sticks his head out of the bathroom door he can hear him in the kitchen, unpacking the shopping, and feeling decidedly pleased with himself.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ Athos thinks deliberately at him.

From the kitchen, he hears the sound of Aramis laughing out loud.

After that, Athos keeps the link firmly closed while he cleans the rest of the bathroom and the living room, using the mental effort it requires as a strategy to avoid thinking about either Aramis or the evening ahead; and it’s only when he comes into the kitchen that Aramis turns round to reveal he’s wearing an apron Athos didn’t know he owned and says, “Okay, you win. Please stop blocking me out?”

“Alright,” Athos relents, leaning in to press an entirely chaste kiss to Aramis’ lips. “But any hint of that while I’m trying to do get things done and you’re out again.”

“I’ll behave. Cross my heart,” Aramis promises solemnly, doing just that to illustrate.

“Glad to hear it. What are we having, by the way?”

Aramis’ smile is uncharacteristically nervous as he answers, “Well… I thought I’d try a really good roast. Or at least that’s the idea, though I’m mostly working off a combination of internet recipes and optimism.”

“You didn’t have to go to the trouble for my sake,” Athos manages, through the blank shock that is someone doing something just for him, just because they knew he’d like it.

At least only about a quarter of him feels like panicking, and the other three quarters are just grateful. He’s pretty sure that’s measurable progress.

“Oh, I know,” Aramis smiles. “Which is why I did it. The Yorkshires are from a packet though, I’m afraid, I think I’ve got my hands full with the rest of it first time.”

“Of course. I’m just… somewhat speechless that you should even attempt it,” Athos confesses, hoping Aramis will think he means because it’s a roast, and not because it’s for him.

“I can tell,” Aramis replies, punctuating his words with a kiss. “Are you all set?”

“Everything that needs to be cleaned has been cleaned,” Athos hedges, “if that’s what you mean. But…”

He hesitates, unable to help it. He doesn’t _want_ to talk about what’s on his mind, not really – but he has an awful image in his head of Porthos seeing through him in two seconds flat and then the two of them ganging up on him during dinner and putting him on the spot.

He can’t decide if that would be better or worse than Porthos and Aramis spending the whole evening being horribly awkward. He doesn’t think he could stand it if they were, not when he’s supposed to be the awkward one, and has no idea how to go about smoothing over social situations.

“Hey.” Aramis’ hand slips into his, and squeezes his fingers. “What is it, love?”

New Athos would tell him, Athos decides. Spit it out, not leave it to fester.

“Do…” _Yes, phrase it as a question, that’s good_. “Do you think the two of you will be alright? You and Porthos. I mean, you did break up rather suddenly.”

Though none of them had any control over the situation – and Athos knows that Porthos knows that – a part of him still can’t help feeling like the scarlet woman.

“Ah.” Aramis, improbably, is smiling. “This is what I suppose I’d call a cultural barrier.” His other hand slips around Athos’ waist, pulls him in close. “So as someone who did a very good impression of a straight man for many years, what normally happens when the people around you break up with their partners? You never see the partner again, am I right? Unless it’s two people from a friendship group who’ve dated, in which case it’s horribly awkward for at least six months?”

“That sounds about right, yes.”

“Right. So Porthos and I, we’ve spent a long time dating mostly in LGBT circles. Now, as I’m sure you can imagine, the dating pool’s a lot smaller, which in practice means it gets pretty incestuous pretty quickly. I can go for a night out, sit round a table with any given group of people, and every single person at the table will be at least one person’s ex. In short, we just don’t have the luxury of burning our bridges, or none of us would have any friends left.”

“Wow,” is all Athos can manage to say.

“Basically, yeah. So in short, what I’m saying is that Porthos and I will be just fine. We liked each other a lot, everything was new and shiny but we knew it wouldn’t be forever, and we both know perfectly well how to play nicely with an ex.” Aramis leans in for a kiss. “So you can stop worrying. I can’t promise we won’t gang up on you though.”

Athos finds the composure to arch an unconvinced eyebrow. “Porthos and I go back many years,” he replies mildly, “what makes you think we wouldn’t be the ones ganging up on you?”

“Ah, but I’m unembarrassable,” Aramis says with a grin. “Many have tried – and failed.”

“Is that right,” Athos replies noncommittally, looking around for a change of subject – the last thing he wants to do escalate this conversation any further – and alighting on Aramis’ new choice of attire. “Where did you find that apron?”

“I didn’t. I brought it with me.” Aramis tilts his head to one side, looking at Athos with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. “You thought it was yours, didn’t you?”

“No,” Athos replies awkwardly, deciding it doesn’t really count as lying when it’s so patently obvious he’s doing it.

“Yes. You. Did,” Aramis insists, punctuating each word with a kiss. “You’re charming, you know that?”

“What?” Athos replies stupidly, finding himself completely at a loss.

He’s not charming, not by any stretch of the imagination. _Aramis_ is charming; Athos is just awkward and not very forthcoming, even at his best.

“You’re charming,” Aramis repeats, thumb stroking against Athos’ bare skin just above the waist of his jeans in a way that Athos is starting to think might be calculated to deliberately throw him off his game. “With your old-fashioned good manners, and the way you’re constantly surprised by your own possessions. And the fact that you have no idea what I’m talking about right now, that’s part of your charm too.”

“Was it that obvious?” Athos manages. “I’m afraid I’m really not making much sense of this conversation.”

“You sound like Sofía,” Aramis says, with a mock-sigh. “I adore her, but she’s unfailingly logical. I think the two of you will love each other.”

“I hope so,” Athos replies, glad to find he means it. “But one social event at a time.”

“Absolutely.” Aramis presses even closer, and Athos can’t help it, he steps back before he realises he’s doing it, only to find that his back’s now pressed up against the kitchen counter.

Aramis takes another step forward, leaning in until their hips are aligned and his mouth is against Athos’ ear.

“Were you going somewhere, love?” he purrs.

“Nowhere in particular,” Athos replies shakily; and he doesn’t know if it’s the proximity or the endearment or the tone of Aramis’ voice, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s rapidly turning into one of Pavlov’s dogs, his arousal building rapidly at just the least suggestion.

“Good answer,” Aramis replies, in that same low, dangerous voice. “I’ve got a little bit of time to spare, you see. Everything’s in the oven that needs to be, and I don’t want to put the vegetables on until Porthos gets here. And while I don’t think we’ll last the full –” he holds up Athos’ left arm, looking deliberately at his watch – “half-hour, I do at least want to try for longer than a minute this time.”

Athos swallows nervously. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, last time we both came apart pretty quickly,” Aramis replies, leaning back a little to look Athos in the face, dark eyes sparkling with intent. “This time, I want to watch _you_ come apart.”

 _Oh God,_ Athos thinks, vague terror starting to override the arousal.

“Hey.” Aramis’ hand comes up to cup his jaw. “It’s alright. I can feel everything you’re feeling, remember? I won’t let you get lost in there. Just tell me whether or not you want to try it.”

Sex, for Athos, has always been about uncertainty; but with Aramis’ gentleness, his reassurance, he feels _safe_.

It’s an unfamiliar sensation, but one he welcomes.

Tentatively, he nods his head. “Yes,” he replies, giving the word as much weight as he can.

“Alright.” Aramis moves his mouth back to Athos’ ear and whispers, “Close your eyes.”

And Athos does, lets his world fall into blissful darkness as Aramis’ lips, soft and impossibly gentle, kiss the shell of his ear, the lobe, trace a path down his neck that feels like they’re drawing something there to the surface, setting it alight. The contrast between the softness of Aramis’ lips and the roughness of his facial hair is more evident on Athos’ hairless skin, the pure sensation enough to have him hard already, cock pressing into what he thinks is the hollow of Aramis’ hip.

When his own hands start to travel, Aramis picks them up and puts them pointedly back on his own waist; and Athos starts to understand then that this is not about Aramis but about him, and that he just needs to relax, let go of his own desire to reciprocate and let himself be touched.

He doesn’t think anyone’s ever done anything like this for him in his life, just given pleasure with no expectation of return.

Aramis licks at the hollow below his neck – and _God_ , that must be one of those pleasure points he was talking about, Athos thinks dimly as his desire spirals, reflecting back between him and Aramis and him until he loses all control and he thinks Aramis does too, pushing a thigh between Athos’ legs to give him something to thrust against as Aramis’ mouth finds his and he kisses him fiercely as he comes.

“Beautiful,” Aramis murmurs, having found his voice already while Athos is still wondering which way’s up. “Just beautiful. You’re going to be the death of me.” He smiles at Athos’ clear embarrassment, and kisses him again. “Now we’d better go and change our pants yet again before our guest arrives.”

“Fortunately for us, he’s not in the habit of being early,” Athos replies breathlessly, letting Aramis take his hand and lead him from the room.


	20. Chapter 20

Porthos, in accordance with his usual habits, is a little late; and in the meantime Athos has showered and changed ( _yet_ again, this is his fourth pair of boxers today and it’s quickly getting ridiculous), and very much not thought about how nervous he is.

Porthos is his best friend, he reminds himself as he sits stiffly on the sofa waiting for the intercom to buzz, in jeans, navy jumper and the blue-grey shirt Aramis had his eye on (“It makes your eyes look electric,” he said, and Athos didn’t know where to look and for the first time in days, pushed down on the link to try and contain his embarrassment), not even the sight of Aramis in a V-necked, chocolate-brown jumper of Athos’, a slice of white T-shirt protruding at the neck, enough to distract him from his worries.

Athos has never been a very visual person, but even he realises that Aramis is uncommonly good-looking; and what’s more, right now he’s dressed to show that off to best advantage.

Unfortunately, all the ways in which the less helpful parts of Athos’ brain are convinced this evening could go horribly wrong are of slightly more pressing importance than appreciating the view.

“Hey.” Aramis leans into his side, bumping their shoulders gently together. “It’ll be fine. I promise. Porthos and I both know how important this is to you. And it’s not like we don’t already get on well.”

“No, I’m sure. It’s just…”

Athos trails off, not sure how to explain what he’s feeling right now, given that he knows it makes no sense. He’s not worried about what he thinks _will_ happen, which is that everything will likely be fine – provided he manages to keep it together himself, of course – but rather about all the things that theoretically _could_ happen, if one of them takes temporary leave of their senses.

Now that he’s starting to think it through, of course the most likely option by far is that he cracks in the face of this self-imposed pressure and spends most of the evening in the bedroom, breathing deeply with his head between his legs.

 _Fuck,_ he’s too sober for this.

“I need a drink,” he mutters, getting up and heading into the kitchen, and making straight for the nearest bottle.

Is it too late to cancel? He suspects it probably is.

Though he can feel the tension thrumming through the bond, it’s nearly a minute before Aramis follows him into the kitchen, leaning in to rest his head on Athos’ shoulder and pressing his cheek against Athos’ so their bare skin touches, that connection soothing the tension in Athos’ muscles.

“I’m really proud of you, you know that?”

“Why?” Athos asks, managing not to add _on earth is that._

“This is your first drink today, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but…”

_But I’m drinking now._

“That’s why,” Aramis finishes, as if it’s self-evident, kissing him on the cheek. “Though pour me one while you’re at it, yeah?”

“Of course.”

Athos reaches for another glass, adding this to his list of things he’s not going to think about just yet.

In the weeks since they bonded, Aramis has been nothing but patient, kind and generous with him, and Athos is constantly torn between near-overwhelming gratitude and the ever-lurking fear that he will exhaust even Aramis’ seemingly endless patience, and Aramis will grow to resent him.

It’s not that Athos hasn’t improved. He’s come to understand that they truly are stuck together for the duration; and that Aramis’ emotions are sincere, that he’s unable or unwilling to hide how he feels. But even though Athos forgets sometimes, can put it to one side, the fear is still beneath the surface, lying in wait – and every time he’s under stress it seems to rear its head.

It’s a horrible vicious circle, of course: the fear of driving Aramis away is what makes him anxious, which further drives his fear. He’s understood that all along.

Unfortunately, understanding his anxiety does very little to silence it.

Finally, he’s saved from his fretting by the buzzing of the intercom.

“I’ll get it,” Aramis says – excitement plain in his voice, squeezing Athos’ hand briefly as he passes and leaving the warm comfort of the bond tingling in his fingers.

Athos pours a pre-emptive glass as he waits the thirty seconds it takes Porthos to get up the stairs, turning just as he hears the front door open and close.

He walks through into the hallway to see Aramis and Porthos in the process of kissing each other on the cheek – and as Porthos meets his eyes over Aramis’ shoulder it’s with a slightly awkward, toothy grin that Athos knows all too well, that says _this is a bit weird, isn’t it?_

Athos’ heart immediately feels significantly lighter as he walks over and lets Porthos hug him hello.

For the first few minutes, Aramis plays host with the accomplishment of long practice; and Athos is happy to let him, so busy agreeing in the right places and going where he’s pointed that it isn’t until Aramis has both Athos and Porthos sat down in the living room with drinks in their hands, announcing his intention to put the vegetables on, they’ll just have to start without him, that Athos realises he’s been very successfully played.

The way he raises his eyebrows at Porthos says _you could have warned me_ ; and when Porthos’ answering expression says _yeah, but it was funny_ , Athos finds himself smiling already.

He’s starting to feel as if it things just be alright.

“How are you, then?” It’s Porthos who breaks the silence first. “You look really well. Better than I expected, if I’m honest.”

“I had a rough few days,” Athos admits. “Things have been up and down. Which is to be expected, I suppose.”

“With everything you’ve been dealing with? Absolutely,” Porthos agrees. “I’m pretty sure I’d be losing it if I were you.”

“Well, it’s strange, but –” Athos fumbles for the words – “you just get on with things, because you have to, and then slowly you start to adapt.”

Porthos smiles. “You’d say you’re adapting then?”

“Yes, actually.” Athos hesitates; reluctant to admit to the decision he made, not really wanting the attention, but seeing no way around it. “I thought about what you said, and I realised… I could either exhaust myself trying and failing to keep everything inside and then probably give myself a massive relapse, or I could be honest about what was going on, and take the chance that he was willing to take on all that baggage. And I suppose I believed in him enough to do it.”

Porthos nods in understanding. “Once he cares about you then you’re in, and you’ve got a friend for life. Most people have trouble getting rid of him.”

Porthos is joking, of course, but Athos can’t help taking a fortifying sip of wine before saying very seriously, “I fear I would not welcome that.”

“Well, no fear of that with a soul bond,” Porthos replies, looking steadily at Athos as if some new understanding has just dawned for him. “Funny really. I thought it was gonna be a nightmare at first, with how different you two are. But I should have known that if there was anyone who could waltz past your defences in less than a fortnight, it’d be him.”

“If it helps, I barely recognise myself any more either,” Athos murmurs.

He can tell Porthos doesn’t know what to say to that; and it occurs to him that if he were Porthos, he wouldn’t know either.

“So what have you told him?” Porthos asks a few moments later. “Just so I don’t put my foot in it.”

“That I have depression, though I think he’d pretty much figured it out by then. He… he knows I was married, that was when it all started, but I haven’t said much more than that. And he knows that Tom died.”

“So you haven’t really told him about Anne?”

“Not as such, no,” Athos replies – not meaning to be as curt as he knows he sounds, but he’s never felt comfortable talking about her with Porthos.

At least Porthos has stopped apologising for not being there, as if everything that happened was partly his fault for going off and having a life of his own.

As if Athos would have let himself be helped in any case.

“We’re – starting small, so to speak. Eventually we’ll work back to the start.” He can’t stop himself from adding, “If we make it there.”

Porthos sighs. “I’m not going to pretend I’m happy about the idea of you going back and reliving any of that shit. But you do still need to deal with it, don’t you?”

 _More than you know,_ Athos thinks.

He’s never told Porthos just how bad it got. He doesn’t even know what Porthos knows really, what he was able to piece together from the few times he saw Athos and Anne together, from the shell of the man he was when Porthos found him, alone in the house and slowly, determinedly drinking himself to death.

And Porthos has never asked him, only patching him up piece by piece, again and again. Never needing to know what made Athos that way, allowing him his distance, his silence.

Athos already knows Aramis is too close to him for that.  

“Yes, I do,” he says aloud. “If I want this to work.”

He doesn’t know what Porthos will say in reply; but Athos never finds out, as at that moment Aramis saunters back into the living room with his own glass of wine, announcing that it’ll be less than ten minutes, gentlemen, and he hopes everybody’s hungry.

After that, the evening flows as smoothly as if they’ve been doing this a decade. They’re all relatively sedate – Aramis is very conscious of the fact that he has to start work at seven thirty the next morning, and unfailingly reminds Athos of it with a hangdog expression every time Athos refills his and Porthos’ glasses – but Aramis’ roast is _amazing_ , the beef tender and the potatoes crispy, the vegetables crunchy and the gravy not too thick (even if the Yorkshire puddings are out of a packet); and Athos takes yet another bite of potato and thinks happily that his partner is just brilliant, a moment before the rest of his mind catches up.

It’s who Aramis is, though, isn’t it? His _partner._ His soul mate too, but Athos finds he prefers ‘partner’, the sound of it new and sharp in his mind, like fresh snow. Partner implies choice, and though he may not have chosen the bond he’s chosen _Aramis_ , chosen to accept him as his. To lay bare his own weaknesses and his imperfections, to kiss him, to do the other thing he refuses to think about at the dinner table because Aramis will almost certainly take it as some kind of challenge and spend the rest of the evening tormenting Athos with his own filthy thoughts.

There’s a word he knows, and he used to say it to Anne when he was young and foolish, when he swallowed every lie he was fed and didn’t know what he wanted that word to mean; and he knows he’s not ready for it again just yet, needs to be stronger to take the weight of all its baggage. To tear away the parts that are rotten and let the good parts grow, just as he’s doing with himself.

But in the meantime, he can look at Aramis, intelligent and animated in conversation with Athos’ best friend, think of his kind heart and his irrepressible _joie de vivre_ , and say to himself, _this is who_ _I choose._

They all move back to the living room after dinner, and Athos sits next to Aramis on the sofa and lets him take his hand, though he feels extremely awkward about it in front of Porthos; but the nervous grin Porthos gives him in response makes Athos realise that he’s as generous as Aramis is, just glad to see the two of them together.

When Porthos finally takes his leave, and Aramis squeezes Athos’ hand with a shy smile and asks if it’s time for bed, Athos suddenly realises something he’d forgotten: that they started having sex today – even though it doesn’t _feel_ like sex yet, he supposes it counts if there are orgasms – and that now they’re going _properly_ to bed together, and he doesn’t know what Aramis wants or expects, and after all the stress he’s had today already the idea of navigating this as well is enough to kick his anxiety back into gear.

“Hey, just relax,” Aramis is saying almost immediately, and though it’s pathetic of him, Athos is so grateful for the bond at that moment that he almost wants to cry, that Aramis just _knows_ and he doesn’t have to try and put any of it into words. “Deep breaths,” he says, his hand rubbing calming circles into Athos’ back.

“Sorry,” Athos manages to reply eventually, when he feels like he can speak again.

“Don’t apologise,” Aramis insists, “not for having feelings. Come on.” He stands, pulls Athos up by the hand, and puts a steadying arm round his waist. “We’ll clean up the worst of this, then we’ll go to bed, and it’s going to be exactly the same as last night, alright?”

“I hate this,” Athos makes himself say as he grips Aramis’ arms, holds on tight.

“I know, love. You don’t like needing anyone,” Aramis says; and Athos doesn’t bother replying, just thinks that if he hadn’t let himself need Anne the way he did then he wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Just remember – I’m a nurse, okay? I see a lot of people who need my help. And they mostly hate it just as much as you do, but they get better a lot faster with it than without it. And you’re going to get better too; but in the meantime, let me help you.”

They clear the plates away in silence, and Athos tries as hard as he can to hold onto some semblance of calm, though it’s difficult not just to descend into loathing himself for being this weak; and Aramis is as good as his word, keeps his boxers on and gets under his own duvet on Athos’ bed, pressing a comforting kiss to his lips before resting his head on Athos’ shoulder.

“Why don’t you think of something you want us to try tomorrow?” he murmurs sleepily against Athos’ skin. “No pressure, of course, just if you want to. I’m getting the impression that you might prefer taking the lead.”

“I’ll try,” Athos replies, a little reassured. While the last thing he wants to do is think about it now, he knows from experience that he’s much more comfortable giving pleasure than receiving it; and even the prospect of Aramis’ anatomy not being what he’s used to fills him with significantly less fear than the idea of letting Aramis lead him, and letting himself be vulnerable.

He knows, logically – is maybe starting to admit to himself – that if he wants things to change, he’ll have to finally start talking about what happened; but not yet, he tells himself, bending his head to kiss Aramis’ forehead in the dark.

_Not just yet._


	21. Chapter 21

Athos wakes the following morning half-fearing that after the success of last night, he's only going to backside yet again; but though there's a little sadness pressing on his chest he manages to get up and have a coffee, wash up the pans from last night that won't fit in the dishwasher and even eat something, though he doesn't taste a single mouthful of his food as it goes down.

He considers trying to get some work, but isn't sure he's ready to go back to it quite yet; instead he decides to go for a walk, hurrying into his clothes and out the front door, seized with the probably groundless idea that a change of scene will help him see everything more clearly.

At the end of the road he hesitates; but grits his teeth and makes himself walk down to the river, even though the memory of what happened last time he walked there prickles at his neck without mercy as he strides along the towpath, head down, hands thrust deeply into his pockets.

He doesn't stop at the little jetty that extends out into the water. If anything he quickens his pace a little, eyes averted.

He knows the time is coming – sooner or later – to face up to who he is, all the shameful truth of it. The way he let her break him down, make him weak, gave her the power to tear him to pieces.

What she did to Tom; and how he doesn't truly know what happened, and he never will.

The idea of going back to that place again is enough to make him feel like throwing up, like he can't breathe; but he knows he needs to do this. That if he ever wants to give Aramis the love he deserves then he has to unlearn everything she taught him, break every last piece of himself down anew, and then rebuild.

For purely his own sake, he would never have done this. He simply doesn't believe himself to be worth it – but he is Aramis' soul mate now, and, he's coming to believe, the only one who can make him truly happy.

For Aramis, he wants this.

Or at least, he doesn't think either of them will be able to bear it if he doesn't.

Beneath all the pain and confusion, the core of him is still self-aware; but really that only makes it harder, to know that his disordered thinking is not based on logic or evidence, and still to be just as powerless to stop it. And he knows as well that the way she treated him was wrong, and cruel, whatever her reasons – though he imagines he'll always feel as though even if he didn't _deserve_ it exactly, he should at least bear partial responsibility for allowing her to do what she did.

That, at least, he will never say out loud; Aramis and Porthos both would find it unpalatable, and Athos sympathises, because he doesn't think he could bear to hear such a thing from somebody he cares for either.

And yet it's important to him to take some of that weight upon his shoulders, if only because it provides the illusion of some sort of control.

Ultimately, though, he just disgusts himself: it's an insult to Aramis to still see her around every corner, to live in constant fear because the wild part of him that cannot be corralled is still an animal in pain, expecting nothing more to be abused again, let down, broken. Aramis is a good person, and doesn't deserve the way Athos sometimes fears him, just because fear is all he knows.

He wonders for a moment if he should try therapy again – but junks the idea immediately. If he must do this then better that it should be with Aramis, who can calm him with a touch, who can feel what he feels, for whom he doesn't always need to find the words. No, far better Aramis to pick over the carcass of his heart with than a stranger.

As much as he would like to pretend otherwise, Athos knows this will be a process. That even if he did manage to spill all his guts in one evening, recount every pain and every shame, then that's only the start. That he has to unlearn most of what he knows of intimacy and replace it with new ways of loving, new ways of thinking. That it will be a long and painful struggle, and he won't always want to fight, will lose sight of the reason why.

But he supposes he has Aramis for that now, to point him along the road ahead when he can't quite see through the fog any more; and though he may not _understand_ , not entirely, he thinks he's at least ready to learn to trust.

Still sad, but at least resolved, he heads back home, where he spends the rest of the afternoon curled up on the sofa with an open book in his lap, thinking of very little.

When Aramis gets home he senses Athos' mood immediately, pressing a careful kiss to his hair and bringing him a glass of wine without him needing to say a word; and Athos squeezes Aramis' hand in silent gratitude and takes a careful sip, wondering whether it's worth saying _it's alright, for the moment at least._

He's saved from having to come to a decision by Aramis' phone ringing; and watches him yank it out of his pocket, a flush of joy coming through the bond as he looks at the screen, before answering with an excited, “Fía! I’ve been meaning to call.”

The conversation goes on in a mixture of Spanish and English, sometimes switching as often as every few words; and Athos doesn't try and listen in, the whole thing reminding him too much of the way he and Tom used to talk, switching languages mid-phrase sometimes just to make their parents crazy. It gives him an unexpected pang of grief that makes Aramis say into his phone, “Just a moment,” before looking at Aramis in concern, though Athos just shakes his head and indicates that Aramis should go on with his conversation, and not worry about him.

He slowly comes to realise that Aramis is feeling very complicated about something Sofía’s telling him – happy yet wistful – though Aramis seems to be making all of the right approving noises, and Athos has no idea what it might be. Family problems, he supposes, and thus not exactly any of his business.

The strained feeling eases off a little as he hears Aramis say in English, “Yeah, like I said to _mamá,_ it’s been a real adjustment for him but he’s starting to get used to putting up with me,” and then the conversation appears to turn to the ins and outs of soul bonds, and Athos reaches for Aramis’ hand again and just lets himself enjoy the feeling of connection, slowly smoothing out the choppy waters of his mind.

Once Aramis finally hangs up, though, the wistful feeling returns full-force – and Athos firmly puts his own issues to one side and says in what he hopes is his most caring tone, “Is something the matter?”

Unusually, Aramis visibly hesitates.

“I’m – going to tell you,” he begins haltingly, very much with the air of one who’s still in the process of convincing himself, “but I don’t want to – I don’t want you to think that I want you to have an answer straight away, or like – basically, I don’t want to freak you out. So. Sofía’s just told me that she’s pregnant again.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Athos replies – though as soon as the words are out of his mouth he can tell it's clear to both of them that he's only saying what he thinks is socially acceptable. “I mean, I take it she's pleased?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Aramis replies, “she and David have been trying for a few months now. It’s her second, and Harry took nearly two years to come along, so they didn’t quite know if it would work out. So she’s over the moon.”

“But you’re not,” Athos guesses.

“Oh, I am,” Aramis hesitates again, “for _her_. But it sort of… made me think, again, about what I might want from my own future.”

Athos has his mouth open to ask exactly what Aramis is getting at when the realisation knocks him for six.

_Children. He wants –_

Athos supposes that people must want children, in the abstract, but he’s never really thought about it as relating to himself, or anyone he knows. And while he supposes it’s obvious that Aramis must like children – of course he does, he works with children, for fuck’s sake – that’s something quite different to wanting children of your own.

When he was married to Anne he never really thought about it, too busy making her and only her the centre of his world; and while he can’t even remotely imagine her as a mother, he knows in his bones that if she’d asked him he would have sleepwalked into it just as slavishly as he did everything else.

The idea makes him feel abruptly nauseous.

“I'm sorry,” Aramis says – “it’s stupid of me, isn’t it? To think that I might – that we –”

 _Fuck,_ Athos thinks in sudden panic, finally putting two and two together and realising that Aramis has directly connected his desire for children with the way Athos felt when he thought about his marriage; and he blurts out, “No, Aramis, please – that’s not what I meant.”

This is it, isn’t it? This is how it begins – not with any high-minded decisions about the person he wants to become, but with the realisation that to stop Aramis hurting, he has to be prepared to hurt a little himself.

He squeezes Aramis' fingers tightly and closes his eyes for a long moment, allowing himself to pinch the bridge of his nose with his other hand as he says, “That's not what I was thinking. Please, just – hear me out.”

He barely feels like he can breathe; but he makes himself speak.

“I was thinking about her. If we'd – had a child. How I would have agreed without a second thought because it never occurred to me to refuse her anything. How everything would have been so much worse.”

He hates admitting to his weakness like this. He knows that even though Aramis knows him now, has seen him cry and panic, has seen him unable to summon up the energy even to get off the sofa, this is nothing compared to how weak he was back then, although it didn't yet show. The weakness that was already taking root inside his heart, growing out to strangle everything it touched: in every whim of hers he indulged; every time he said yes when he should have said no; every time he turned to her for absolution from his so-called 'sins' when he should have turned away.

But now is not the time to wallow in self-pity. Now he needs to focus on Aramis.

“As for you and I – I have no idea, to be frank,” he admits. “I'm not even remotely ready to think about something like that yet.”

“No, of course,” Aramis replies generously, shifting himself over to snuggle into Athos' arms, “the last thing I'd expect is for you to have an answer already. I mean, it's been what, two weeks? And I know a lot of things are still uncertain. For me, too. I just – on the one hand I always expected that when I bonded we'd just know, somehow, what we wanted; and then on the other I have years' worth of baggage from my mother telling me I need to grow up and start taking some responsibility for myself, and how could I expect to be a father when I was still behaving like a child?” He sighs. “Well. Either it's meant to be, or I will be the irresponsible uncle who stuffs them full of sweets and buys them anything they want, and then sends them home for Fía to deal with.”

“Does it help,” Athos finds himself asking, “to think that it’s fated?”

Though it still doesn't make much sense to him – he supposes it’s just not how he’s wired – he finds that he’s genuinely curious, for the first time.

“It does, actually,” Aramis replies, shifting and tucking himself further beneath Athos' armpit. “If these things are out of my hands anyway, then I don’t have to worry about them, and everything will just happen as it’s meant to. It’s a very peaceful feeling. Though not an excuse to entirely avoid taking responsibility, of course, as I’ve grudgingly learnt. Even though I grew up without religion, I’ve always felt that I needed something to believe in.”

“And I’m the exact opposite,” Athos confesses. “I can’t imagine thinking that I was just following a script, with no real will of my own.”

He can’t help thinking, _I would lose all hope I had left, to believe in anything so cruel._

“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Aramis backtracks. “Even if we were fated to meet, which I can’t help believing we were, we still have to make it work.”

Athos smiles, looking down at where Aramis is curled in against his shoulder and thinking, _I’m choosing you, every day_. “I think we can agree there.”

“I’m glad,” Aramis smiles back. “Now, I’m afraid I must get back to my book. Molly’s coming in tomorrow and if she finds out I’m behind on our book club for the second week running, she’s going to be really unimpressed with me. She’s such a little adult, it’s downright scary. I feel like the child a lot of the time.”

“You should, then,” Athos agrees, reaching across the coffee table for his own e-reader. “I’d hate to share the responsibility for her displeasure.”

As they sit curled up together on the coach, Aramis tucked under Athos’ arm and twisted sideways in a way Athos can’t imagine is actually comfortable, Athos waits as Aramis gradually loses himself in the world of his book, and then slowly, carefully, closes the link, trying to draw as little attention to his own behaviour as possible.

He just wants a few minutes of privacy, he decides, to be briefly alone with his thoughts. To look at Aramis and decide what it is he sees in him, without Aramis reading his feelings and him getting tangled up in Aramis' reactions.

He looks, out of the corner of his eye: takes in Aramis’ ever-unruly hair, his lively dark eyes, his profile, the just-about-beard that Athos imagines suits him better than being clean-shaven ever would – and tries to imagine taking him to bed.

Visualisation is hardly Athos’ strong suit, and it takes a few moments of hesitation, embarrassment, even though there’s nobody else in his head to notice, before the sense of it starts to come to him, even if not quite the images; and he’s always known Aramis is handsome but he’s only just getting used to the idea of him as _sexy_ , though the word doesn’t feel quite right in Athos’ mind.

 _Beautiful_ feels better, he decides, even though he’d always thought of it as something feminine; and against the quiet, still backdrop of his own mind, separated from the complication of Aramis’ own clear desires, he’s just plain fucking relieved to look at Aramis and realises he _wants_ to touch him, wants to undress him and learn his body, make him feel good, make him come. Make love to him.

 _Well, that’s that then,_ Athos thinks, surprisingly calmly. Now all he has to do is get himself there.


	22. Chapter 22

That night they sleep again as they always have, though this time Aramis curls himself firmly against Athos’ back through the two layers of duvet; and Athos wakes feeling on a fairly even keel and spends the afternoon on his work computer for the first time in weeks, sending rapid-fire emails to the most tolerable of his industry contacts to see if he can get anything useful out of them. He thinks he's about at the point where if he gets something lined up, that little push will do him good.

When Aramis gets home after work it’s with a flurry of liveliness as usual, red-cheeked from the cold and eyes bright on seeing Athos; and Athos lets himself relax into Aramis’ chilly kiss as it turns long and slow, feeling newly secure in the knowledge that this _is_ what he wants, without question, even though he’s a long way from being healed.

When Aramis finally pulls away it’s to say, “I was thinking – how would you feel about doing the place up a bit? Painting, maybe, putting something on the walls at least.”

Athos finds he doesn't know what to say for a moment. Is this a thing normal people do? At his family home there was never any question of decorating, and since he’s been here it’s simply never occurred to him. The walls are there to keep the warmth in and the weather out, after all, not to _look_ at.

“I really have no idea,” he replies, as honestly as he can. “Is it something you’d like?”

“Yeah, I would actually,” Aramis replies, pulling off his gloves and worming his chilly fingers up between Athos’ T-shirt and the cashmere jumper that he chose to wear again today, quietly glad when he held it up to the light and thought not of her but of Aramis, and how much he liked it. “I mean, I’m assuming it wasn’t foremost on your mind when you moved in… and while I don’t want to be rude, everything seems a bit bare. Impersonal. I’d like to look around and be able to see us.”

“I’m not sure I know what that would look like,” Athos confesses, half-hoping Aramis won’t realise the full extent of what he means. It’s occurred to him recently that while he doesn’t think much of who he is, he at least knows who he is right now; and the question of who he might become in the future if he deals with some of his demons is starting to loom large.

“Well, maybe some colour on the walls,” Aramis replies, fortunately taking Athos at face value. “While I do like my blood orange, you strike me as more of an earth tones type,” he finishes, grinning at Athos’ probably predictable wince. “Something calming. A few prints, perhaps, photos of us with the people we love. Maybe an ornament or two. Do you have anything in boxes anywhere?”

It’s on Athos’ lips to say _no, I brought the clothes Porthos put in a bag for me and my favourite books and CDs, and pretty much everything else got sold_ – when he thinks about the other things he _does_ still have, in that unlabelled box in the downstairs cupboard.

Some of them hurt too much, he thinks, and he couldn’t bear to see them around the flat, every day – but there are some photos of him and Porthos, he knows, and the telescope that was his most prized possession for years. Maybe a few other things too, that don’t have such painful memories attached.

“I do, actually,” he says, with a twist of the mouth that’s not quite a smile. “Why don’t I bring it up?”

The box is heavier than he remembers, and getting it up the stairs to the flat is annoying; and Athos takes his time, unable to help thinking that it’s nice to be just a little bit further away from Aramis, to steel himself for what's to come.

Aramis is going to want to know what everything is. He’s going to want to hear stories, and explanations, and he’s going to pick through all these facets of Athos’ old life and turn them over in his hands; and Athos stops at the bottom of the stairs and rests his head against the cold wall for just a few moments, and reminds himself that he’s decided to do this.

 _Dead wood,_ he tells himself, hefting the box in his arms and beginning to climb.

When he lets himself back in, Aramis is already sitting on the sofa with a pile of random objects on the coffee table, a book and an old-fashioned photo envelope, a plastic fairy wand and what looks like a pile of fridge magnets; and Athos uses that as an excuse to set his box discreetly on the floor before sinking down next to him, saying, “So what have you got?”

“Well, I’m constantly torn between sentimentality and a need to travel light,” Aramis explains, “so it’s all little things here. My mum’s still got all the macaroni pictures and the stories I wrote as a kid, the terrible clay bowl I made in art class when I was eight, that kind of thing. But the magnets are for my family – A Coruña where my parents live, Bristol for Sofía, Lisbon for Lucía. London for my childhood. This was my favourite book as a child – I’ve got another copy at work actually, in case I ever get the time to read to any of my patients. And some of the old photos, mainly family and school friends. The newer ones just tend to be on Facebook these days. I’ll put the magnets on the fridge, if that’s alright?”

“Sure,” Athos says, and gestures to the fairy wand, a simple tube of pink plastic with inlaid glitter, fashioned into a star at one end. “Was that your sisters’ as well?”

“It – was mine, actually,” Aramis replies, not quite daring to meet Athos’ eyes. “That was what I loved as a kid. Magic, witches and wizards and fairies. The book, it’s about a boy wizard with nine lives, who keeps them in a book of matches, and I thought that was _amazing_. My sisters’ favourite thing was to pretend to be fairy princesses, and none of us saw any reason why I shouldn’t too.” His tone’s defensive, but even Athos can recognise it as nervousness more than anything. “Though I did pretend it was a gun occasionally as well. My parents wouldn’t allow toy guns, so I made do.”

Athos can tell he’s supposed to say something now – something kind and accepting, to show that he isn’t weirded out or disgusted by a boy pretending to be a fairy – but what comes out is an awkward, “It sounds like you all had lots of fun.”

“We did,” Aramis smiles back, and Athos realises he’s passed; though there’s something wistful in Aramis’ expression, and in the complicated feelings coming through the link. “I stole Lucía’s fairy dress and threw a tantrum when my parents tried to get me to take it off. I wanted to wear it to the school fancy dress day. I was heartbroken when they wouldn’t let me, but it was probably for the best.”

Athos barely remembers being a small boy, but he can imagine all too well how it would have gone down if one of his classmates had turned up one day in a dress.

“Children are cruel,” he offers, reaching out to grip Aramis’ shoulder in support, to try and make up for his rubbish attempt at sympathy. “And the divisions between them are mostly arbitrary.”

“Thank you.” Aramis’ smile is small, but Athos can feel his sadness lifting. “So what’s in your box?”

Without a word, Athos pulls the box round between them so Aramis can reach inside. “The things from the old house I thought were worth keeping.”

He doesn’t know what Aramis is expecting; but as he pulls back the cardboard flaps, Aramis seems surprised to see that even though it’s a standard-size moving box there’s very little in it, though every single thing does its part towards weighing it down.

Athos knows he’s become absent-minded in the last few years, though mainly for want of caring; that he probably looks like a stranger in his own home sometimes, surprised at every turn. But though he hasn’t looked inside in maybe three years he knows every single item in that box, all that’s left of the life he used to live.

“Most of it’s not very interesting,” he dissembles, as Aramis leans over to peer inside. “My degree certificate, school photos. The family tree, in that big book. Our family Bible. My grandfather’s letters, that sort of thing.”

When Aramis looks up again, there’s something in his eyes that Athos can’t quite read. “Show me the things that mean something to you, then?”

Holding his breath, Athos leans over and picks out first the telescope, then a slim leather book, a small jewellery box, a long, thin leather case, and a velvet bag, the contents clacking together.

“This was mine,” he says, probably unnecessarily, passing the telescope over to Aramis and letting him hold it. “As a boy I was obsessed with space. The idea that there was so much out there still to be discovered. In the summer holidays I used to sneak out into the gardens and spend half the night stargazing.”

If he could just stop here, he thinks, put the rest of the things away and pretend they had never happened, it would be a lot easier.

He tried to do that with his life, he reminds himself, and look how far it's got him.

“Photo album,” he says next, handing the slim volume to Aramis and letting him open it up and flick slowly through the pages, as he tries not to cringe. Seen through someone else’s eyes the pictures are mostly awfully stilted, formal things, as though nobody in his family loved or even knew each other, and were just standing next to each other to be polite.

The four of them together; Grandfather in uniform; his parents, much younger; him and Tom as children, a few pictures; him and Porthos in Paris, looking happy, at least.

Aramis stops at a picture of Athos with his arms round a smiling blonde woman, his head on her shoulder. Her mouth is open as if she’s doubling over with laughter, and he’s grinning himself, maybe ten years younger, and clean-shaven. He’s not sure he recognises himself.

“Is that your ex-wife?” Aramis asks, very gently.

“God, no,” Athos replies – startled by the question, though he supposes Aramis doesn’t know any better. “That’s Amy. My first girlfriend.”

There are no pictures of Anne, he's made sure of that. He wishes he could forget her face entirely.

“You look really happy together,” Aramis says, turning to Athos with a smile that he’s sure shouldn’t be used to tell his partner he looks happy with someone else.

“We were. Sort of.” He hesitates, and then decides to go for it; he’d much rather talk about Amy than anything else that happened back then. “She was perfect, really. She was beautiful and witty and intelligent, and I loved spending time with her more than anyone. Her family knew mine and our mothers had their fingers crossed for an engagement for years. And we tried so hard to fall in love with each other that we almost believed it for a while.” He sighs, and leans over slightly to look at the picture, can’t help smiling as he remembers her even now. “She was everything I should have wanted, but our hearts just weren’t in it.”

“Are you still in touch?”

“No, I… she met someone else eventually. Max, he was a banker. She moved to Switzerland to be with him, and we fell out of touch.”

They’d emailed for a while, but when he’d mentioned her to Anne, in the new, heady days of their relationship, she’d made him feel terrible for it; and even though she’d never said as much, after that he'd stopped, and let the correspondence die off, never able to shake the feeling that he was doing something forbidden.

And after Anne… well, he wouldn’t have wanted Amy to see him like that. Better that she remembers him as he was.

Aramis nods, flicking through past pictures of friends from school and university, people Athos remembers liking but who had gone gradually from being his friends to his and Anne’s friends, and eventually more Anne’s than his; and whom he’d dropped abruptly when she left him, in some cases without a single word, when he hadn’t known what to say to anyone.

Perhaps sensing Athos’ mood, which has turned distinctly melancholy, Aramis snaps the photo album gently shut and turns to the other items on the table, hand hovering over the small bag. “Can I?”

Athos nods.

“My mother’s necklace, that she always wore,” he narrates, as Aramis opens and looks intently at each of the items in turn. “And that's my father’s fountain pen. I was fascinated by his study as a child, he seemed to spend the whole day sitting behind this massive oak desk, just signing things. And – my brother went through this phase of collecting rocks down by the river one summer. He used to draw eyes on them and make them have conversations with each other. I pretended I was just there to stop him falling in and drowning or something, but I think I probably got more into it than he did in the end. When I left, I – didn't know what to take, and these just jumped out at me.”

Aramis is looking at him so kindly; and Athos doesn’t quite know what’s on his mind but he doesn’t want Aramis to say anything, he realises immediately, there’s nothing he’s ready to hear.

“So there’s nothing I’d use as decoration,” he finishes, waving his hand vaguely at the walls. Perhaps some artwork would be a good place to start, though I don’t know if you’d want a theme, or…” He shrugs. “It’s not really my area of expertise. I’ve only ever lived in the one house before this one, and it wasn’t the kind of place one decorates.”

“Why, what was it like?” Aramis asks, with notable interest.

“Old,” Athos replies succinctly. “It was an heirloom, really, in a way houses rarely are these days. Wood panelling, family portraits, an Aga… rather Merchant-Ivory. There was no question of decorating a place like that.”

As if they all grew to fit their surroundings, he supposes, rather than their surroundings growing to fit them.

“Wow,” Aramis replies. “I can’t imagine. And as for here, I think we just pick things that speak to both of us, and it’ll work itself out.” He grins. “How do you feel about fairy lights?”

“Only at Christmas,” Athos replies shortly, rolling his eyes; and taking that as his cue to return his past life to the box where it belongs, item by item.

“Hey.” Aramis’ hand comes out to gently stop his wrist. “Maybe leave the photo album out for now? We could put a few of them on the fridge. The ones of you and Porthos at any rate, just to make a start. I’m sure I’ve got enough magnets for the both of us.”

“Alright,” Athos replies carefully, removing his hand and leaving the photo album where it’s lying on the coffee table. “And we could put the telescope somewhere. I think I'd like that.”

Perhaps there are a few things worth salvaging, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' favourite book is _Charmed Life_ by Diana Wynne Jones.


	23. Chapter 23

As promised, two pictures of Athos and Porthos end up on the fridge – the one from Paris and one from graduation day, in their matching Balliol College gowns and mortar boards – held up by magnets of cartoon sea creatures. They’re surrounded by Aramis’ family photos: Sofía, David and Harry, Athos learns; Lucía and Simon; Aramis’ parents; and a few more pictures of friends. It doesn’t escape Athos’ notice that Aramis has given each picture the right magnet.

“We need one of us,” Aramis says as he places the last magnet, and as Athos steps back into the room he starts to see what Aramis means, that even just a little collection of things on the fridge changes the tone of the whole room, gives it a depth of colour that just wasn’t there before.

He can’t remember the last time he was in a photo. Something with Anne, of course; though she’d always tended to volunteer his services as the photographer, and he remembers that when he came to it he didn’t even have that many pictures to destroy.

When he follows Aramis back into the living room, it’s with two full glasses of wine.

Aramis seems a little subdued after that; but Athos resolves to give him his space, and it’s not until they’re eating dinner that Aramis asks, in the particular tone that Athos has learned means he’s treading carefully, “Would you tell me about your family? What they were like?”

Athos puts down his fork and doesn’t answer for a moment, not because he doesn’t want to but because he doesn’t know where he’d start. After all, how do you explain a person?

“Well… I don’t remember much from when I was very young, and after that I didn’t see my parents as much as most people do, I suppose,” he begins, already trying to excuse the fact that the more distance he has, the less he feels like he knows anything about them. “Did I say I went to boarding school?”

“You mentioned it briefly, yeah. From how young?”

“Seven,” Athos says shortly – and starts when he feels worry coming through the bond.

“Seven,” Aramis repeats thoughtfully, staring at him. “That’s – surely that’s too young.”

Athos shrugs. “It was tradition,” he replies simply. He must have been homesick at first – he thinks they all were, though everybody tried not to show it – but it never would have occurred to him to object. It was what was expected of him, after all. “It was a long journey, and after that I only really saw my parents in the holidays. Tom too, when he came to school.

“I’m sure they loved us,” he continues, because he can’t imagine they didn’t. “We were just never very – demonstrative, as a family. And they had certain expectations, of course.”

He half-expects Aramis to nod in understanding; but instead he frowns. “Oh yeah? What kind of expectations?”

“The usual things, I suppose. A good degree, a good job. Marry the right person. I think my mother chose Amy as much as I did. Not that I wasn’t happy to be able to keep someone’s interest, at that point. There had been a few girls at university, but it had never quite got off the ground. I probably spent too much time with Porthos, in hindsight.”

Aramis blinks. “Were you in love with him?”

Even though Athos supposes he’d invited the question, a small thread of panic laces its way through his blood – but he pushes it down, and makes himself reply. “Maybe a little? I'm not sure. I was pretty committed to being heterosexual, and there was a point where perhaps if I’d acknowledged it, we might have fallen for each other… but it passed, and since then I’ve only ever thought of him as a brother.”

Aramis’ hand reaches across the table, and Athos takes it gladly, deciding he doesn’t care that his food’s probably going cold. “And why wouldn’t you let yourself?”

“Because it wasn’t who I was supposed to be,” Athos replies. “My parents weren’t especially homophobic, but – it was something for other people.” He takes a deep breath, tries to think how to explain it. “Every family has an eccentric, but you can’t _be_ that eccentric. Especially not as the eldest son. If I’d been gay I might have stood up to them, but I liked girls, so… I knew I’d find a nice girl that my parents approved of and I’d marry her. I almost proposed to Amy, actually. I’d bought the ring and everything.”

“What happened?”

“She wouldn’t have me. And then I met my ex-wife,” Athos says shortly, untangling his hand from Aramis’ and turning back to his dinner.

He feels a whisper of self-disgust at the way he’s behaving – the last thing he wants is to become his father, develop that particular way he had of signalling _this conversation is over_ without ever having to say the words – but he knows he’s not ready to talk about Anne, not now.

Though he tries never to get lost in what ifs, knowing that they’re futile, he can’t stop his mind from circling through the possibilities as he finishes eating, both of them silent, Aramis apparently also lost in thought. If he’d married Amy, if she hadn’t been braver than him. If his parents hadn’t died when they did. If he hadn’t met Anne.

Though his parents were his _parents_ and he still misses them, almost the way he misses Tom, he can’t help feeling glad they weren’t there to see what became of him. Weren’t there to see their favourite son die at twenty-five, and their other son barely able to keep living.

“I can’t help wanting to ask what your parents would have thought of me,” Aramis confesses, suddenly breaking the silence; “but I think I already know the answer.”

 _You would have been an embarrassment,_ Athos thinks; and immediately hates himself for it, even though he knows it’s the conditioning talking, and not what he thinks at all.

“It’s more a question of what they would have thought of me,” he replies in the end, hoping it’s not as much of a lie as it feels. “If I’d fallen for a man, they could have put that down to a fit of temporary insanity and told me to come back when I’d sorted myself out, but a soul bond…” He shrugs. “De la Fères don’t have soul bonds. Except when they do, I suppose.”

So much of the world he grew up in was about making the right choices. Marrying the right people, with the right background, whose parents would make the right kind of small talk at the garden parties – and soul bonds blew all that to hell.

He wonders for the first time if he _is_ truly the first, or if there have been others before him, unacknowledged, neatly written out of the family history. His particular genes have to have come from somewhere, after all.

“It’s not… I don’t want to say it’s a class thing, because it’s not nearly that simple, but…” Athos struggles to find the right words. “It was a very insular world, and soul bonds – they’re unpredictable. You could bond with anyone, any time.”

“Exactly,” Aramis replies. “Love conquers all.”

 _It doesn’t, though,_ Athos thinks, remembering that particular tone his mother used when she’d call Anne _your new friend_ , the way his father would ask him periodically how Amy was, just to make a point – and that was with another woman.

Under the onslaught of Anne’s determined charm, seeing how effortlessly she slotted into their world as if she’d been born to it as well, they’d eventually begun to thaw; but Aramis they would _never_ have accepted, and from the way he talks about his own family, Athos can sense it would have broken his heart.

When he doesn’t reply, he sees Aramis’ face turn uncertain, unwilling to believe what Athos’ silence clearly implies. “Are you really saying your parents would rather have had you miserable with a woman than happy with a man?”

Athos sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “When I was having doubts about proposing to Amy, I went to my father for advice. We’d never really talked about anything emotional before, but I thought…” He shakes his head. “He told me that she’d be a good wife and a good mother, and if my heart wasn’t in it – well. That was what mistresses were for.”

Aramis is staring at him, and Athos can tell he’s horrified. “Jesus. And what did you say?”

“Nothing. I was speechless. I thought about my mother and I just…” He sighs. “I was trying to figure out how to tell Amy I couldn’t go through with it when she told me first. It was easier for her than it was for me, I think. Her parents were more forgiving.” And she didn’t believe she’d never find anyone who would make her heart race, who she’d _love_ , who wouldn’t just make her feel guilty for not feeling the way she thought she should.

“Talking about it all makes me realise just how toxic it all was, actually,” he admits, though more for the sake of Aramis’ wary expression than for himself. “In hindsight, I think Porthos tried to make me realise at the time, but I was too firmly mired in family expectation to take that step. I think if I’d actually tried to marry Amy he might have staged an intervention, though.”

“I think you’re right,” Aramis agrees. “I can’t see him standing by while you talked yourself into something that wasn’t what your heart wanted.”

Athos only nods in reply, letting the conversation grind to a halt, and trying desperately not to let himself wonder what would have happened if Porthos hadn’t enlisted, if he’d been around more that year. Whether he would have been as charmed by Anne as everyone else was, or whether he would have seen her even then for what she really was.

Did what he’d thought began with his marriage actually have its roots even earlier, in the subtle disconnect that existed between what was expected of him and what he wanted for himself?

It was Anne who gave him the strength to defy his parents’ expectations, he has to be honest about that – if she hadn’t made him fight for her, he would never have found that strength in himself.

“I know this is difficult for you to talk about,” Aramis says afterwards, as they’re still sitting round the table, empty plates stacked and off to one side. “So it really means a lot to me that you are. I don’t want to make you dredge up every single thing that’s ever happened, but… I think it’ll help us understand each other better. Knowing how our lives have shaped us.”

“I do agree,” Athos replies, “but – I think what I’d prefer this evening is a little distraction.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth he realises how they must sound; and he knows that the panic must be evident through the link at least, if not on his face – and so he’s indescribably relieved when Aramis’ expression doesn’t turn knowing or predatory, but instead he just leans over to press a kiss to Athos’ cheek and says, “How about I give you a back massage, hmm? Work out a little bit of the tension.”

“That sounds nice,” Athos replies, and then immediately wants to slap himself for his own inability to properly express his gratitude; but as Aramis is already looking at him quizzically, he makes himself say, “Lovely, I mean. That sounds lovely.”

“I’m glad,” Aramis replies, smile bright and forgiving. “Why don’t you go and lie down, and I’ll just get a few things.”

Athos doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting – probably just to strip off his shirt and get prodded a little – but Aramis comes back with an armful of towels, some scented oil, and even candles, which he lights and places on their bedside tables, turning the lamp down low.

“It’s just a pity I don’t have any rain sounds,” he says as Athos strips off his T-shirt and lies on his stomach on the bed. “I’ve got whale song on my phone, but somehow I don’t think that’s very fitting.”

“Silence works fine,” Athos replies, tactfully avoiding mentioning how anything that sounds even vaguely New Age is enough to make him start silently seething, which as well as being immediately obvious to his soul mate, is hardly the point of this exercise. “And – you didn’t need to go to all this trouble. Really.”

“Ah, but why would I do a thing badly when I can do it well?” Aramis replies archly; and Athos supposes he can't fault the logic in that.

Aramis kneels beside him on the bed, pouring oil into his hands and rubbing them together to warm them, and Athos has a moment to note the strong smell of sandalwood permeating the air before Aramis brings his hands to his bare back and starts to touch, hands moving down and out in long, gentle strokes.

It’s good, he decides quickly, Aramis’ touch is warm and calming and in no way charged, and despite himself he _is_ starting to relax, wonders if he could fall asleep just like this, with Aramis’ hands gently circling, slowly pressing down deeper.

Then Aramis moves to squeezing his way up and down Athos’ sides, and he realises very quickly that he’s not going to be sleeping _any_ time soon with this going on.

“Just tell me how hard I need to press,” Aramis murmurs, “you’re very tightly-wound in here and I don’t want to put you through too much the first time” – and _is that right_ , Athos thinks just a little hysterically, gritting his teeth as Aramis works along his shoulders.

There’s something – cathartic about it, he decides, as Aramis works his way over a particularly nasty knot over Athos’ shoulder blade and does something that feels like he’s rocking it back and forth over the bone, smoothing it out and kneading it away. More painful in the release, but leaving him freer, lighter.

He’s just about deciding it’s a good thing when Aramis says quietly, “You really don’t expect that I might want to do something just for you, do you?”

At any other time, Athos would probably have panicked, but he’s feeling so relaxed physically that there isn’t more than a small ripple of anxiety; and his throat is open and his voice steady when he replies, “No, I don’t.” And then, when he realises this is the perfect opening to at least acknowledge one of the things he’s carrying around inside him, he makes himself add, “It’s not something I’ve had much experience with.”

“With – _oh_ ,” Aramis replies, in as small a voice as Athos has ever heard from him; and Athos is so floored by the wave of grief washing over him that he twists round to look at Aramis, wanting to say _what is it, did I hurt you?_

But what he sees is Aramis setting his jaw, bending over to capture Athos’ lips in a hard kiss, stroking the line of his beard with one slightly oily thumb. “Well, it starts now, okay?” Aramis says fiercely, and Athos can tell he’s sad, and angry, and all this for _him?_ “I’m going to do things for you, because I – because I want to. Because it makes me happy to see you happy as well. So start expecting it.”

“I – don’t know if I’ll be able to,” Athos confesses, letting his eyes drop away from Aramis’ face.

Aramis takes his jaw in thumb and finger, lifts it until Athos meets his eyes again. “Then I’ll just have to keep doing it until you start to get it, won’t I?”

Overwhelmed for a moment, torn between dread and gratitude, Athos closes his eyes and rests his head on Aramis’ knee without a word, not caring that the hands that come up to stroke through his hair are oily, and staying there until his heartbeat starts to slow once more.


	24. Chapter 24

Athos has to admit to himself that he has trouble remembering which days Aramis is working and which he isn’t, so when he wakes to find Aramis still beside him, tousled hair sticking out from under his duvet – which appears to be pulled up over his ears – it’s always something of a surprise.

It's a nice surprise, though; Athos’ days alone are unpredictable, sometimes perfectly acceptable and sometimes mostly melancholy, but when Aramis is here, his heart always seems to be just a little lighter.

In truth he’s still trying not to think too hard about it, because when he does things often start to spiral. Instead, he just reminds himself of what Porthos said, that all they're doing is learning to live together.

Well. With more kissing than he’d originally intended, but. The more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes; and so he tries to just get on with things. To make Aramis as happy as he can, and to try and ignore the fact that he doesn’t feel particularly deserving.

It’s a question of genetics, after all. Deserving doesn’t come into it.

He must have dozed, as the next thing he knows is the sound of the coffee machine dragging him back to wakefulness, then Aramis coming back into the bedroom with a small cup and a pint glass of water, which he places on Athos’ bedside table.

“Morning, love,” he says, bending over to kiss Athos’ hair. “I’ve made you coffee. Because I want to.”

As Athos looks up at him, he realises there’s something pointed in Aramis’ expression.

“How long are you going to do this for?” he asks as neutrally as he can, though he can’t help the fact that what he’s feeling is more of an awkward, embarrassed pleasure.

“Until I think you get it,” Aramis replies, in a voice that suggests Athos is being particularly thick, as he sinks to his knees beside the bed, reaching for Athos’ hands where they’re clasped just under his chin –

– and Athos bites the inside of his lip against the sudden memory of the way he used to fall to his knees before Anne at his most desperate and very carefully does not let it show, instead shifting back into the centre of the mattress as he says, deceptively calmly, “Come sit next to me.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Aramis grins, with a broad wink that’s so ridiculous it’s funny; and Athos sits up, propping his pillows up against the headboard so that he can drink, with Aramis curled up against him, his head in Athos’ lap.

Athos is glad it’s the glass of water that’s in his hand and not the coffee, when the sudden sense of sexual arousal coming through the bond makes him startle enough that he actually manages to miss his mouth entirely and splash water down his chin, the duvet, and even a little on Aramis’ head.

“Fuck!” Aramis exclaims, reaching up to pat at his head before glaring at Athos, though when he notes Athos’ look of mortification, he can’t help grinning. “While I’ve had a lifetime of people pouring cold water on my ideas, they don’t normally feel the need to do it literally.”

Athos rolls his eyes, though he can’t help the amused puff of air that comes out with it, which only makes Aramis’ grin grow wider. “Sorry. You just took me by surprise.”

“No kidding,” Aramis replies – but he doesn’t seem annoyed, at least, for which Athos is secretly relieved, as Aramis pushes himself up to kiss Athos on the mouth. “Let me make a start on breakfast.”

Athos is slowly starting to get the hang of this whole Aramis thing, and he’s realised that though they seem to be doing well together, so well that he’s periodically looking around him waiting for something to go wrong, there are areas of life where he does need to compromise. Where he can’t just live as he always has and expect Aramis to just slot into place there as if he were tailor-made for it.

One of these areas is getting out of the house. While Athos would quite happily never again go anywhere that has other people, he’s noticed that the idea of staying in sends Aramis ever so slightly nuts, and that his extroversion and need for attention is a lot easier to handle if Athos has essentially taken him for a walk – though he immediately feels a bit awful for thinking it, because Aramis is a _human being for God’s sake,_ not a pet.

The fact that Athos does normally feel better for at least having had some fresh air being neither here nor there, of course.

In an attempt to banish any unfair associations from his mind, Athos offers his arm and lets Aramis lead him where he’d like to go; and they’re strolling together along a street Athos doesn’t really recognise when Aramis suddenly yells, “Constance! D’Artagnan!”

Athos flinches a little, finds himself thinking _couldn’t you at least phone them_ as the couple crossing the road ahead of them turn and wave – he recognises Constance, of course, and the man must be her boyfriend, long dark hair and a blinding smile, and yes, Athos thinks he can recognise the kind of person who’s friends with Aramis a mile off.

They both come up to hug Aramis, and Athos shakes d’Artagnan’s hand as he introduces himself by name, and ends up kissing Constance awkwardly on the cheek because he isn’t quite sure what to do; and agrees cordially when d’Artagnan says it's been too long, and they were going to the supermarket but there’s no rush, why don’t they all get a drink somewhere and catch up?

“I know the perfect place,” Aramis gushes, clapping d’Artagnan on the shoulder and leading him along beside him, d’Artagnan immediately saying, _so how have you been?_

“And how have you been?” Constance asks quietly beside him; and Athos frantically racks his brains to try and remember exactly how he was the previous time, and what they even said to each other.

“Better?” he says in the end, though it comes out as more of a question than anything; and realising that Aramis and d’Artagnan are already half way down the street, “We’d better catch them up.”

He offers Constance his arm, and she rolls her eyes, but he can't help noticing she's smiling as she falls into step beside him.

When they make it to what turns out to be a pub, quiet and subtly decorated and near-deserted at two in the afternoon, Athos orders for everybody while they find a table, Aramis and d’Artagnan’s conversation about someone d’Artagnan works with and his debatable culinary habits never faltering; and when he comes back to the table he finds himself sitting next to Aramis, who immediately reaches for his hand, and opposite Constance, who smiles reassuringly at him, as if she can sense his slight discomfort.

He glances briefly over, to where Aramis and d’Artagnan are still embroiled in what sounds to him more like a character assassination of a mutual acquaintance than anything else.

When she speaks, her voice is clearly not pitched to carry.

“Does he wear you out?”

“Occasionally,” Athos admits, equally quietly, “though I think I’m starting to get the hang of him.”

He feels a little terrible admitting to it, but Constance just smiles. “I find the trick is to make sure you two don’t get too wrapped up in each other. Right now it’s new and shiny and he probably wants to spend every waking moment with you, but he needs time with his friends as much as you need the time for yourself.”

“Absolutely,” Athos agrees, admitting, “I’m not really the outgoing type. Or the going out type, either.”

Constance frowns in sympathy. “Aramis said you hadn’t been well.”

“Not as such, no,” Athos replies cautiously, wondering just how much Aramis _has_ said to her.

He’s not sure he _cares_ , as such – she’s Aramis’ friend and not his after all, and he knows that Aramis should be able to talk to other people when he needs to. It’s just strange, he supposes, to sit here and just have it so easily acknowledged, like he’s not wasted years of his life.

He realises Constance is looking at him as if she thinks she’s overstepped her bounds; and wanting to reassure her, he casts about for the first thing he can think of to say. “And when the bond formed, I didn’t think I’d be – that I’d have room for someone else.”

 _Fuck,_ he thinks immediately, it’s far, far too much – but he realises she’s smiling, just as Aramis turns to him with a worried expression.

“I’m not neglecting you, am I?”

“No, it’s fine,” he replies, “Constance and I were just talking.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Aramis beams, “because d’Artagnan here has just claimed he’s going to kick my arse at pinball and I intend to make him rue the day.”

With matching grins, they’re off to the other side of the bar, to the flashing lights of the pinball machine that Athos is noticing for the first time.

“I was still at university when I met d’Artagnan,” Constance says, her smile fond. “I’d known him for a few months, but it took me a while to really notice him. I was far too busy working up the courage to leave my then-boyfriend.” Her eyes flick down to the table. “I took longer than I should have. It – was not a healthy relationship.”

Athos takes a gulp of his beer, trying to squash the sudden anxiety churning in his stomach at her words, inexpressibly glad that Aramis is far enough away for the bond to be weakened. _She can’t know,_ he reminds himself, not when _Aramis_ doesn’t even know; but try telling that to his racing heart, he thinks as he grips his pint glass until his knuckles turn white.

“Go on?” he manages to say.

“After that I – well, I’d been socialising the whole time, we were in the re-enactment society together and I adored it, but I’d never really been _there_. Once I started to pay attention, I wondered how long he’d actually been hanging on my every word for.” She smiles at the memory. “But he was so charming and enthusiastic and wanted to spend all the time with me that he could, and I just wanted to be my own woman for a bit, to remember who _I_ was first. And to be honest, part of me thought it was probably just a flash in the pan. Someone like him, they meet someone like me who knows exactly what they want for themselves – well, they find someone else a little less demanding.” She shrugs, as if it’s a fact of life.

“So when he asked me out, I sat him down and I told him exactly where I was in life, and what I wanted next, and why he couldn’t be part of that picture just yet. And that if he still wanted to, to come back after graduation and I’d see if I was ready for him then. And he found me at the ceremony. So if you’ll excuse the unsolicited advice, what I’m saying is… don’t let Aramis rush you, just to keep him happy. Be yourself first.”

As Athos just sits and looks at her, speechless, she suddenly grins and says, “And if you get fed up, pack him off to ours for the evening. We all need a change of pace sometimes.”

“Don’t think I won’t take you up on that,” Athos replies, his smile unforced. “So what was the re-enactment society?”

Constance’s explanation of Early Reformation life lasts until everyone’s drinks are finished and d’Artagnan’s saying apologetically that they really do need to get to the supermarket and back before their dinner guests arrive; and Athos lets Aramis lead him around the supermarket as well and very carefully doesn’t get annoyed at any of the screaming toddlers or people who leave their trolleys in front of the shelves and wander off God knows where, and they have steak, chips and salad and a slightly better bottle of wine than usual; and Athos catches himself smiling at Aramis across the kitchen table afterwards and suddenly freezes, because _what if all of this goes wrong,_ what if he ruins it now?

Opposite him, Aramis’ face falls in a mirror of his own.

“What is it? Athos?”

When he doesn’t reply, Aramis’ hands come out to grip his own.

“Why don’t we go and sit on the sofa, yeah?”

Athos lets Aramis take him by the arm and guide him up and through to the living room, encouraging him to sit and then going back for their glasses, before sitting down next to him, taking one of Athos’ hands in his and wrapping his other arm round his waist, saying very gently, “Can you tell me what’s wrong, love?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Athos replies, his voice sounding distant to his own ears – mechanical, even. “I had a lovely day. And a lovely evening.”

“What is this I’m feeling, then? I don’t understand. What’s changed?”

 _Nothing’s changed,_ Athos thinks, _I just hate myself no matter what I do._

Instead he says, “Do you remember, when I was – when I didn’t want Porthos to come over, you told me about patternicity? The feeling that what happened before will happen again?”

“Yes, I remember,” Aramis replies, his fingers twisting in Athos’, his worry clear through the bond. “What do you feel is going to happen, then?”

“I…” Athos cringes even as he thinks it, because it’s so stupid, isn’t it? To be so scared of ruining something by being scared of it, thus making that ruin inevitable; when if he could only get over himself, he could just be a normal, functional human being. The partner Aramis deserves.

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” he says desperately, trying to stall for time, for a way out.

“You said that last time,” Aramis points out gently, “and you were wrong. So why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

 _Because you believe in me,_ Athos thinks; _and even though I know it’s not real, I never want you to stop._

He closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to look at Aramis’ face as he says, “I can’t help feeling that – I’m going to ruin things. Like it’s all too good to be true, like – you are. That I’ll be too sad, and not have enough to give, and I’ll drive you away.”

“Oh, _Athos,_ ” Aramis says, sounding lost for words; and Athos keeps his eyes closed against the pain he’s causing and puts a tentative arm round Aramis’ back as he feels him lean in, bury his head in Athos’ shoulder for a long moment, just holding him and being held.

When Aramis eventually finds his words again, Athos expects him to try and comfort, to reassure; to make empty promises, perhaps, that Aramis will never grow tired of trying, that he can subsist on such paltry offerings.

What he isn’t expecting is for Aramis to curl his hand against the base of Athos’ throat above his collar, and say very seriously, “Is that what happened with your ex-wife?”


	25. Chapter 25

_Patternicity,_ Athos thinks as his eyes snap open, realising he’s given himself away. Wondering, in the next breath, if some perverse part of him wanted this to happen, to trick himself into a position where he would be forced to admit to how he’s already ruined, how _she_ ruined him long ago.

It takes him a moment to realise that it’s not another trick of his weakness but rather of his strength, that green shoot of hope that persists even among so much decay and dead wood, that believes he is strong enough to remake himself, to rebuild, that he can learn how to love and be loved while love is still open to him.

And all he has to say is _yes_.

“I’ve been reading a bit,” Aramis continues, hand rubbing circles against Athos’ waist, “about depression. And I thought that you were just sad sometimes because that was how it worked. But if you worry that this is going to be like it was with her, then –”

“ _No_ ,” Athos exclaims, surprised by the violence of his own response. “You’re not like her at all, how could you be?!”

Generous, open, honest… Aramis couldn’t be less like her if he tried.

“Well, _tell_ me how it is then,” Aramis snaps, “I’m just trying to understand!”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Athos takes a deep breath, putting his head in his hand for a moment and trying desperately to think it through. He feels unmoored, rudderless, with only the vaguest idea of what he wants to achieve.

He wants to be _better_ , but he’s not sure he can see the way there.

“You’ve never told me her name.”

Athos frowns. He had no idea; but then again, he’s mentioned her as little as possible. “Her name’s Anne.”

It feels strange to say, the way he imagines it would to call someone else by his own name, as if its use doesn’t match reality. _She doesn’t belong here, that’s why_ , he thinks, hopes it’s true.

“Does it matter?”

“I have no idea,” Aramis replies. “Perhaps it does, if you were holding onto it.”

He honestly doesn’t know if he was.

 _To name something is to have power over it_ , he can’t help thinking, though he’s never been one for superstition, or for the delusion that the power was ever his.

“It’s not logical,” he says, and again, “you’re nothing like her. But unfortunately my brain doesn’t tend to listen to what I tell it. It – remembers, that I drove her away, drove Anne away, and it expects the worst, I suppose.”

“How did you drive her away?”

When he doesn’t reply, just puts his head in his hand again and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, Aramis leans against him to rest his own head against Athos’ shoulder. “Shall I tell you what I think?” he asks, then without waiting for an answer, “Because I may not know everything that happened, but I can assure you I’m an expert on myself. So you’re worried about driving me away, but the only thing I could think of that might do it is if you kept holding onto all these things that hurt you and not letting me in, not giving me a chance to help, or yourself a chance to heal. And there’s no deadline on you – I’m not going to give up on you if you don’t tell me today – but if you continue to keep all that stuff inside you indefinitely, then I don’t know how we could really know each other, if you won’t let me see it.”

And that will hurt him, Athos knows that; it will break his heart. And while maybe he would have been willing to break anyone else’s heart just a little if it were to set them free –

Aramis is his _soul mate_ , and neither of them will ever be really free again.

 _Come on then,_ he tells himself sharply, _help him learn to live with you. That’s the least you can do._

He drains his glass.

“She was –”

 _Amazing,_ he thinks; but he can’t say it, not even for Aramis. Better to admit ten times over to the way it went wrong, to the way he suffocated her with his constant need for approval, his fear of disappointing than to the way he adored her. The way she charmed him and everyone around him, the way he made her the centre of his world, made her his _family_.

“It was not a healthy relationship,” he says at last, remembering Constance’s words from earlier. “We were – too wrapped up in each other. I thought it was what she wanted, but… I got too much for her, I suppose. Eventually she just couldn’t stand it any longer. That’s why she left. I was just doing what I thought she wanted. I only wanted to make her happy.”

_And all I did was turn her against me._

“Oh, my love,” Aramis replies, squeezing his arm even tighter around Athos’ waist. “And you think you’re going to be too much for me? I can’t even imagine that being possible.”

“I know you’re not her,” Athos manages, pushing the words out through the burning at the back of his throat. “But – in both situations, I’m the common factor.”

“But you’re not though,” Aramis insists, taking Athos’ jaw in one hand. “Look at me. Athos. I mean, I know you’re still you, but you’re hardly the same person you were then, are you? What you’re telling me – I don’t recognise you in that at all. If anything, I feel like the needy one in this relationship.” He laughs nervously. “And all I want is for you to feel happy with me, to realise that it’s alright for you to have needs. To trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Athos forces himself to admit. “Trusting _myself_ is a different matter.”

“Then _trust me_ when I say you can’t ruin this all by yourself,” Aramis insists, his grip tight around Athos’ fingers. “We have to trust each other that if something’s wrong, if there’s something we don’t like, we’ll talk about it.”

“That never helped with her,” Athos can’t resist pointing out; and wishes he hadn’t when Aramis stares at him, in disbelief and – _anger,_ he realises with an awful lurch, though at least Aramis doesn’t seem to be angry at him.

“Athos. If you two were talking about how you felt and things got worse rather than better, that’s a really bad sign,” Aramis says, the hand on Athos’ jaw moving down to his lap, to hold his other hand as Aramis looks searchingly into his face. “Does the same thing happen when you talk to me?”

“No,” Athos admits, gritting his teeth against the memory of the way she’d told him that everything was his fault, well enough that he still at least partially believes it. “You’ve always been very kind.”

“Well, then,” Aramis replies, as if that’s settled. “All I want is for you to be happy with me. So any time something’s wrong, I want us to talk about it, and we can figure out together how to make it better. Okay?”

“Okay,” Athos agrees. He sees the sense in it really; neither of them have any choice but to learn to live with each other, and to do the best they can, and he’d rather he hurts than Aramis does.

“Now, is there anything else you’d like to say? Or would you like us to let this go for now?”

“I’m good,” Athos replies gratefully, daring to lean forward and drink a little of Aramis’ wine.

“Alright, and so am I. So what would you like to do with the rest of the evening?”

“I don’t know,” Athos replies. It’s starting to hit him how utterly drained of all energy he feels, and the idea of making that decision just takes more than he has spare. “Whatever you’d like is fine.”

“Alright, let’s go dancing.”

 _Fuck_ , Athos thinks immediately, his head snapping up to meet Aramis’ eyes – and he realises Aramis is giving him a distinctly unimpressed look. “Didn’t we just agree that it’s okay for you to need things? Now try again, what would you like to do?”

It’s a fair point, he supposes. The idea of making a suggestion off his own bat still seems overwhelming, but he can at least manage to steer Aramis in the right direction. “Something quiet. Relaxing.”

“Hmm. Sofa, or bed?”

“Bed. And another glass of wine.”

“Alright.” Aramis leans in for a kiss, which Athos returns gratefully. “Go get yourself comfortable. Wine’s coming right up.”

When Aramis comes into the bedroom with a newly-full glass of wine and a glass of water, Athos is already down to T-shirt and boxers and is under the duvet, sitting up against the headboard.

“The water’s for me this time,” Aramis explains, as he puts Athos’ drink down on his bedside table, “I’ve got an early start tomorrow, and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Come on,” Athos raises an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not even thirty.”

“Twenty-nine,” Aramis replies with a grin, “though my liver must be mid-thirties at least.”

“Then mine must be due for its pension round about now,” Athos retorts, though he can’t help smiling back – and as Aramis’ hands go to the buttons on his jeans, not even bothering to turn round, his heart thuds suddenly harder in his ribcage as he realises what he wants.

“Join me?”

Aramis’ hands still as Athos feels the hope suddenly bursting through the bond, bright as day for a moment, before it suddenly tails off in a way he’s not at all expecting; and Athos finds himself saying, “What?”, dry-mouthed as he tries desperately to make sense of what he just felt, what he’s done wrong –

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Aramis is saying, crawling onto the bed still in his half-unbuttoned jeans, reaching out to run his hand warm and soothing down the bare skin of Athos’ arm. “I was trying to suppress the link a little bit, I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but I should have said something first, shouldn’t I? I just – I got excited, and I didn’t want you to think I expected anything…”

“You’ve never given me cause to think that,” Athos says sternly, too relieved to find it’s not his fault to manage to be tactful. “Entitlement is really not something I associate with you.”

“God, we’re a right pair, aren’t we?” Aramis smiles, Athos’ relief mirrored on his own face. “I ask you to be honest with me about how you’re feeling and then I go ahead and do the exact opposite, and because I’m worried about being too needy. Jesus Christ.” He slumps against Athos’ shoulder, rests his head there.

 _Maybe we just need each other,_ Athos thinks.

“But you’ll have to be a little more specific,” Aramis murmurs, his voice dropping low and deliberate, making Athos _want_ suddenly, the sensation spreading through him like a fever. “In what way would you like me to join you?”

For a moment Athos doubts himself, wonders if it’s the bond and not him at all, or it's just his ever-present desire to please; but then he remembers looking at Aramis and thinking about wanting to touch him, that it was him who just asked Aramis to join him, him who desired first – and that decides him.

“In the bed, please,” he says breathlessly. “Under this duvet, more specifically.”

“ _God,_ ” Aramis replies, pulling his shirt over his head before wrestling his jeans off so fast it’s almost funny, leaving him in just his boxers as he pulls the duvet back and slips beneath it, throwing the other duvet carelessly to the floor.

The air’s thick with arousal, and Athos feels half-drugged with it as he slides down on his side, pulling the pillow with him and tucking it beneath both their heads as he rests his hand on the bare skin at Aramis’ waist, just inches between their bodies.

“Athos,” Aramis breathes, “I really want this to last more than thirty seconds. I can try to hold down the link, but I can’t…”

Athos knows exactly what he means. With the way their desire plays off one another it feels as good as if he’s already being touched, and they haven’t even done anything yet.

“I’ll handle the link,” he finds himself replying, “just let me touch you.”

“You’re sure?” Aramis asks, though the combination of joy and arousal coming through their bond speaks for itself, really.

“Yes,” Athos replies, keeping his eyes on Aramis’. “May I?”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Aramis murmurs, as Athos reaches out and lays his palm over Aramis’ heart, a moment before their lips meet.

As their mouths open to each other, Athos can feel them starting to spiral already; and he clamps down on the bond entirely until Aramis vanishes from his head, and then eases up just a little, so that he has only the sense of him behind his temple, desire trickling steadily in.

Aramis places one hand chastely on Athos’ waist as his other hand pushes under the pillow to find Athos’, holding on tightly as Athos trails his fingers down Aramis’ chest, kissing the hiss from Aramis’ lips as he strokes over his nipple, inching down and down to Aramis’ waistband and then curving his whole hand just above Aramis’ hipbone, sliding it round to his back, and spreading his fingers, taking his time, exploring.

“God, please, _please_ ,” Aramis starts to pant against his lips as his hand finally comes down to skirt along Aramis’ hips over his close-fitting boxer briefs, almost but not quite covering his arse, “ _please,_ Athos” – and something about the tone of it, of Aramis’ fingers clenching tightly against his hip, makes Athos think of himself, and the way he used to say that to Anne, and pulls him up short.

“Am I not doing this right?” he makes himself say through the sudden fear, hand moving back up to still against Aramis’ waist again, where he started.

“What? No, it’s _perfect_ ,” Aramis blinks at him, the arousal coming through the bond dropping away, to be replaced with confusion. “What makes you say that?”

“Well – it’s just that you were – asking me for…” He gives up, takes a deep breath, realising that he doesn’t quite know _what_ Aramis was asking for. Just for something Athos wasn’t giving. “There was something missing?”

He can actually see the moment the light seems to go off in Aramis’ head, as he smiles in reassurance, his hand stroking along Athos’ side as if to soothe him. “Alright, so here’s a thing about me,” Aramis explains, “I like to ask for more, but that doesn’t mean I always want you to give it to me. In fact, I generally like you to make me wait for it. So if I’m telling you more, put your hand on me, open the link, whatever – ignore me. Do whatever you were going to do anyway, at your own pace. And if something’s actually _wrong_ , I’ll always tell you to stop first. Is that okay?”

“I think so, yes,” Athos replies. It makes sense, of course, that some people would like that, and he doesn’t begrudge Aramis his preferences; though were it to come from him, he doubts he’d ever be able to see it as anything other than weakness, asking for something that's not his to receive.

“Brilliant,” Aramis beams; and _he’s_ brilliant, Athos thinks, and _fuck it,_ Aramis wants him, he wants Aramis, there’s no reason not to – and he only just remembers to clamp down on the link before he leans forward to kiss Aramis again as he shoves his hand without warning down into Aramis’ boxers, wrapping it around the base of his cock.

Athos' control on the link wavers and nearly slips at the fresh wave of arousal pressing up against it, from both sides – his own at the feeling of his hand on hot flesh for the first time, and Aramis’ in the jagged groan he pours into Athos’ open mouth as he shifts onto his back, pulling his knees up and his boxers down, and Athos turns into his body, presses his own erection into Aramis’ hip as he starts to move his hand, lets the long-forgotten rhythm come back to him to the sound of both their gasps and moans as Aramis says something against his mouth that sounds like _Jesus fuck, Athos_ and his hand pushes inside Athos’ boxers and it startles him into dropping all pressure on the link –

– and he’s coming so hard it makes him dizzy and he loses all sense of self for a moment, all he knows Aramis’ hand on him and his own hand curled around Aramis’ cock, jerking in his grasp as he comes warm and wet all over Athos’ fingers.

It takes him a moment to realise Aramis is saying, “Athos. Athos. _God._ I think I’m actually speechless.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Athos replies, surprising himself with his own ability to form a sentence as Aramis laughs brightly and kisses him again.

He’s going to remember this moment, Athos resolves, and make it his strength whenever he’s feeling weak; because to have Aramis like this, to _make_ him feel like this… this must be why people let themselves love.

And whatever he needs to put himself through to get there, if he remembers this moment, he feels like he might just be able to do it.


	26. Chapter 26

“Alright,” Aramis says, as he slides his hand carefully out of Athos’ boxers, leaning in for another kiss. “How about a shower?”

“Sure, would you like to go first?”

Aramis stares at him for a moment, before explaining with infinite patience, “I meant, why don’t we shower together.”

“Oh.” Athos almost wants to ask if that’s a thing people do together, but apparently it is. “Won’t we just get in each other’s way?” he says instead. “There’s not a lot of space.”

“Okay, I think we’re talking at cross-purposes here,” Aramis replies, but I’m just going to get us some tissues first.” He kicks the covers neatly off and hops stark naked out of bed, leaving Athos lying there awkwardly with a fistful of his come, trying not to stare at the trim roundness of Aramis’ arse as he disappears from view – or at the full-frontal shot he gets a few seconds later that has him blinking and awkwardly averting his eyes.

“If you want me to put my boxers back on, just say the word,” Aramis offers, not awkward at all as he hands over a couple of tissues, and Athos sets to wiping his hand, and then inside his boxers, as Aramis covers himself with the duvet. “Otherwise, you can assume that if it’s on display, then I’m happy for you to look as much as you like. I’d even go so far as to say I’d like you to.”

“Alright, I’ll… see, I suppose. It was just somewhat unexpected.” Still feeling somewhat flustered – and pretty ridiculous, he can touch Aramis' cock just fine but he still can't _look_ at it, apparently – Athos gropes for a change of subject. “You were saying something about cross-purposes?”

“Oh yeah, with the whole shower thing,” Aramis replies, shifting himself over to lean against Athos’ side, pressing a kiss to his upper arm, just below the sleeve of his T-shirt. “So when I talk about showering together, what I’m imagining is you and I, getting very close.” His hand snakes around Athos’ back, to grip the far side of his waist. “Taking turns to soap each other up, learning the other person’s body as well as our own. Taking our time, being very thorough indeed.”

Athos can feel Aramis’ arousal as he describes the scene in his mind, and though he’s just come and there’s no question of his cock responding again for a while, he’s definitely feeling it mirrored in himself; though he can’t help the fact that as he imagines the two of them together, under bright lights and in such a small space, it’s edged with a distinct reluctance.

He’s embarrassed as soon as he realises; but Aramis just smiles patiently at him, bumping their shoulders gently together. “Everything I say you can take as an open invitation, okay? So if I bring it up then you know that I’d like it, and you can take me up on it straight away, or not at all, or at some point in the future.”

“Alright,” Athos replies, in something approaching his normal voice. “For now, I think perhaps you should go first.”

In the end, it’s Athos who ends up going first, as Aramis points out that he’s a hot water addict who’s liable to take an age; and afterwards he puts a fresh pair of boxers on but no T-shirt and walks the chilly few metres back into the bedroom, where he pretends not to notice the sly once-over Aramis is giving him, though he can’t help feeling somewhat flushed.

It doesn’t stop him from sneaking a glance at Aramis’ still-bare arse as he heads for the shower himself, though.

Once Aramis is out of sight Athos realises that he’s quite pleasantly sleepy, and snuggles down beneath the covers, wondering if it’s the orgasm that’s relaxed him. He really does feel beautifully calm, his anxiety the lowest it’s been for a while, and he wonders if he could even go so far as to consider this evening’s activity somewhat medicinal – and smiles to himself as he realises that’s something Aramis would probably say.

He remembers worrying that as he got slowly better, he might stop recognising himself, but now he realises that’s hardly true; all that’s happened is that a cloud has just passed, and while another will probably come along soon enough, for now he determines just to enjoy a little sun.

When Aramis comes back, climbing beneath Athos’ duvet in the dark, he’s very warm, and Athos thinks, very naked.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, reaching out to place a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “I can put some clothes on, or get the other duvet again?”

“What do you normally sleep in?” Athos mumbles drowsily.

“If it’s up to me? Nothing.”

“Then nothing’s fine,” he decides, the last thing he wants to make Aramis change himself to suit Athos.

Plus, if they’re going to be getting close to each other like this, he really doesn’t think boxers or no boxers makes a blind bit of difference.

“I should warn you,” Aramis murmurs, “I’m a cuddler. I’ve not met a warm body I haven’t gravitated towards yet.”

“Oh, go on then,” Athos says, still closer to sleeping rather than waking; and it’s only when six feet of _very_ warm Aramis moulds itself flush along the length of him, the ripple of arousal coming through the bond accompanied by a rapidly-hardening cock slotting against the crease of his arse, that he realises what exactly he’s let himself in for.

In hindsight, he supposes the warning made it obvious.

And his own cock is starting to respond – _already?_ he thinks at it, but while he knows that Old Athos would not have been able to rouse himself to a second round, New Athos seems to have other ideas entirely.

“Well, I did warn you,” Aramis says cheerfully, very close to Athos’ ear.

“That you did,” Athos agrees grudgingly. “But I was planning on going to sleep.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Aramis replies, kissing the nape of Athos’ neck, scraping a little with his stubble –

– and _oh,_ that does it, Athos decides, and he just has time to hiss, “This time the bond’s your responsibility,” before he flips over and pulls Aramis into his arms.

“Are you always this horny?” he growls, trying desperately to hang onto his annoyance even though Aramis is hard against his hip and it’s making it increasingly difficult to think straight, arousal flashing in and out of his mind as Aramis is doing a frankly shit job of controlling the bond that they’re definitely going to have words about later.

“Only with you,” Aramis pants, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of Athos’ boxers, “can I?”

“Yes, yes,” Athos says impatiently, and he’s biting his lip to stop himself coming as Aramis almost knocks him in the face with his elbow pushing his boxers down, and he jerks and tastes that he’s drawn blood but at least he hasn’t come.

“Watch my face – and keep hold of the bond,” he complains, his fingers digging into the back of Aramis’ neck, pushing up into his curls, unable to stop the jagged _ohh_ that escapes him as Aramis reaches out to cup his balls, squeezing gently.

“It’s my first time, I’m doing the best I can,” Aramis points out, sounding _far_ too together for the situation they’re in as he bends his head to kiss Athos’ neck, murmuring something into the skin there.

“What?”

“ _Pull my hair._ ”

Athos weaves his fingers deep along the roots of Aramis’ hair and pulls gently, and he can’t imagine liking this but he can certainly feel the effect it’s having, arousal blooming once then _again_ as Aramis wrestles for control of the bond, and Athos can tell even under the influence of all these hormones that it’ll be game over if he puts his hand on Aramis’ cock at any point, so he curls his spare hand beneath his pillow and digs his fingers into the stuffing.

“Touch me, touch me, _please_ ,” Aramis moans where he’s licking whorls against Athos’ neck; and Athos opens his mouth to very reasonably point out that that isn’t going to work right now but a ragged groan comes out instead as Aramis finally moves his hand to Athos' cock, and instead he just guides Aramis up by the hair to kiss him on the mouth instead, and lets him turn in and rub himself along the dip inside Athos’ hipbone.

Aramis’ grip on the bond is still shaky, and twice, three times, it slips and Athos is almost, _almost_ coming when Aramis pushes back down and the force of their shared arousal eases off again, leaving him straining and gasping, and while he knows he’ll never beg another person to touch him again he’s at least halfway to wanting to.

The fourth time he’s sweating enough to start soaking the sheet beneath him, his hand is sweating in Aramis’ hair and he dimly thinks he can’t take much more of this – and he just about has the self-possession left to kiss his way around Aramis’ jaw and bite his earlobe as Aramis works him to the edge, pulling hard on his hair a split second later, and Aramis loses it entirely and Athos is set alight with the combined force of their orgasms, both coming messily over Athos’ stomach.

Mindful of Aramis’ need for affection, Athos lets him kiss him once more before peeling himself away from the sheet with a grimace, shuddering as the chill of the room air hits his sweat-damp skin, as much of a shock as if he’d suddenly stepped outside without a coat.

“I’m going to shower again,” he says – a little annoyed, though he couldn’t put his finger on why, “and then I’m changing that sheet before I even think about getting back into bed. And you really need to work on your bond control.”

He doesn’t know if he’s expecting remorse or objection, but Aramis just grins at him, evident even in the near-darkness of the room. “What makes you think I didn’t have that under control?”

“Well,” Athos replies, as if it should be obvious, “the way you kept _almost_ –”

 _Oh,_ he thinks distantly.

_That was part of –_

Well. Clearly he does still have a lot to learn about certain things.

He tenses, the dark part of his brain expecting to be laughed at; but Aramis’ smile just seems to get brighter. “I mean, the book made it sound _good_ alright, but I didn’t imagine just how –” he suddenly frowns. “Wait. When you were reading my book about soul bonds, you never read the physical intimacy chapter, did you?”

“It didn’t seem appropriate,” Athos replies primly – and _fuck,_ he sounds like his bloody _mother_ – and then there’s a horrible moment where he imagines her looking down on him and realises he’s standing naked in his bedroom with his torso covered in drying semen, not all of which is his, and he thanks God he doesn’t actually believe in Him or the afterlife because his parents at least deserve to rest in some measure of peace, for all their faults.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, striding from the room with as much dignity as one can when one’s naked.

He showers again, and resolutely does not think about how _rude_ he’s just been – he’s clearly far from an expert on the ins and outs of sexual activity but he’s fairly sure none of them involve being rude to one’s partner – or how he’s feeling reasonably okay, all things considered, which is faintly terrifying in and of itself because it probably means that just around the corner is the moment when he crashes again, hard.

When he gets out of the shower it’s to find that Aramis has already changed the bottom sheet himself; and Athos lets him feel his gratefulness and tries to push his guilt to one side as he gets under the covers, murmuring apologetically, “No cuddling this time.”

“Oh, don’t worry love, your virtue’s safe for tonight,” Aramis teases, resting a hand on Athos’ waist but leaving some distance between their bodies at least. “As the physical intimacy chapter of my book will tell you, while the bond allows us to generate crazy amounts of arousal, there are no other physiological changes. In short, I won’t be getting it up again tonight and I doubt you will either.” He curls round to press his lips against Athos’ shoulder. “That’s your homework, by the way. Read that chapter tomorrow.”

“You’re giving out homework now?” Athos replies, probably too tired to even be surprised. “Am I back at school or something?”

“Don’t you just wish school had been this much fun?”

Athos can just hear the grin in Aramis’ voice.

“The ethical implications of that are horrifying,” he can’t help saying, even though he knows that’s hardly the point.

“Alright, but will you read the chapter?”

“Yes, I’ll read the chapter,” Athos replies sleepily, letting Aramis encourage him round for a final kiss. “Once I’ve slept.”

“Alright,” Aramis replies – but he’s the one who’s asleep in under five minutes, air whistling a little through his nose, and Athos flops onto his back with his eyes shut and wonders if they can truly make this work.  


	27. Chapter 27

The next morning starts as most mornings do, in a way Athos is quickly starting to think of as routine: Aramis’ alarm goes at six, and Athos pulls the duvet up over his face and ignores him for the next half hour until an apologetic kiss is pressed to his hair and the front door closes, after which Athos dozes until his own alarm goes at nine.

He makes a coffee and checks his email first, after realising somewhat guiltily that he went digging for work a couple of days ago and then forgot about it completely – but there’s nothing definite, just a quick reply from Tréville saying he’ll call him if anything comes up (at which he leans over the side of his desk to check his landline’s actually plugged in), and an out of office from Christine Bourbon.

There’s a message from Porthos, too, which on closer inspection is just a link to a BuzzFeed article about sleepy-looking animals, meaning he can spend two minutes being torn between his hatred of BuzzFeed and his slightly embarrassed gratitude that Porthos does at least see things and think of him; and an email from Ninon inviting him to a college alumni dinner, which he closes immediately and moves to the ‘University’ folder in his email, thereby not quite going as far as to decline but if he’s honest, hoping he’ll forget about it entirely.

The last alumni dinner he went to was with Anne on his arm, where she won the hearts of everyone she met; and in the car on the way home she asked him how much he’d drunk _exactly_ , and that blonde woman, she was certainly looking at you a lot, are you sure there was never anything there, I know you like them blonde, don’t you; and then at home she shrugged off his hand when he tried to touch her and left him to lie awake on his own side of the bed for most of the night, wondering why he didn’t seem to be able to make her happy any more.

There’s a pencil lying on his desk, and he picks it up and bends it until it snaps, heart racing; but for the first time, instead of running from the memory, pushing it away and immediately pouring himself a drink, he makes himself acknowledge it. That it happened.

_This is how she treated me._

Now, he has the benefit of hindsight. He’s had numerous attempts at therapy. And even back then, when her behaviour turned from just insecure and controlling to downright cruel, enough of him knew it wasn’t right, that it wasn’t how love was supposed to be.

But though he expected the shakiness, the sickness in his stomach, the pounding of his heart as the echoes of who he was call to him out of the past – he’s never felt it quite like _this_ before, overlaid with a kind of anger.

It's rebellion, perhaps, that particular defiance that’s born from insecurity, because he’s not suggesting he’s anywhere near stable, oh no. But he can’t help thinking of Aramis, of the pieces of himself that have been left for his soul mate to pick up; and for the first time it feels like it’s not just his fault alone for being too needy, too dependent, for never quite being enough, but hers too, for making him worse and worse.

He gets slowly up from his chair on shaky legs, throws the two halves of the pencil in the bin before pouring himself a glass of water, and sits in the armchair with his head between his legs until he feels like he can go on again.

Then he pours himself a drink anyway, tells himself that at least he tried first, and manages, just a little, to make the thought stick, to convince himself he's not been a _complete_ failure.

As he sits back down and takes a deep drink, he looks around for something to take his mind off all of the thoughts that are starting to swirl around and around inside it, picking up pace; and his eye catches on Aramis’ soul bond book, which he appears to have placed prominently on the corner of the coffee table before leaving for work this morning.

 _Right_ , Athos thinks wryly, _sexual homework it is then._

As he reads the chapter, Athos decides that he doesn’t mind having not done so before now. He expects that before he’d actually started having sex with Aramis, the idea of their sexual arousal spiralling to uncontrollable heights would have put him off so thoroughly that it would have taken them a lot longer to ever get there.

Having already tried bonded sex and learned that at its ‘worst’ it means both of them coming in their pants in under a minute, Athos finds he can be much more sanguine about the whole experience – which as Aramis said last night is the same as non-bonded sex in every other respect anyway, the book chapter mostly covering bond control within sex, or what Athos would probably call ‘edging’, and what he thinks is a rather obvious warning about the fact that if you’re sitting and fantasising about your partner while they’re trying to do the crossword, they will notice and probably be put off.

It is interesting to read, though, that new relationship energy lasts no longer in bonded couples than non-bonded couples, meaning the hormones that are firing all over the place right now will eventually simmer down, at least, and they won’t spend the rest of their lives desperate to rut against each other multiple times a day.

While Athos _is_ enjoying it on a base level, he can’t help his lingering mistrust at something that feels more like being drugged than anything else – and that still reminds him unfailingly of what it was like to fall in love with Anne, for all that Aramis couldn’t be less like her.

He doesn’t know if it’s the memories of this morning that cause the thought to niggle at him throughout the day; and when Aramis eventually gets back home Athos realises that it must be almost four and he hasn’t eaten anything all day, has he, no wonder he feels as grey as he does.

“Hey, love,” Aramis says, coming over and perching on the arm of the chair to kiss him hello, his head tilting as if he’s sensing something; and Athos debates asking him not to destroy the furniture but decides he doesn’t even care enough for that.

“Hungry or thirsty?”

“Hungry,” Athos replies, realising after a moment what Aramis must mean; and when Aramis takes it upon himself to order takeaway, Athos forces himself to move from the chair to the sofa so that he can lie down and put his head in Aramis’ lap, imagining his own gratitude trickling out through the fog of weariness surrounding him.

When the food arrives they don’t even bother going through to the kitchen, Aramis just bringing plates and chopsticks out and putting them on the coffee table; and Athos is newly astonished by just how much it helps to eat, and he’s starting to feel somewhat normal again after most of a plate of food when Aramis says, “So, what did you learn from the book?”

“Erm… we can mirror each other’s sexual arousal, but there are no other physical effects. We need to learn to control the bond if we want it to last more than about a minute at this stage, we can annoy each other with our sexual fantasies while we’re trying to get things done… and our hormones will settle down eventually, just like they do in any non-bond sexual relationship, and we’ll stop being all over each other constantly,” Athos summarises.

“Gold star,” Aramis replies with a grin. “And on that last point, we’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we, before we’re down to one a day.”

“One a _day_?” Athos replies sharply before he can help it – because he doesn’t know exactly what Aramis is expecting, but it sounds like they’re going to need to have a serious conversation about their respective assumptions at some point.

He’s aware he’s hardly an expert on sexual matters, but he’s fairly sure that having sex every day, is well, a _lot_.

“Okay,” Aramis says, running a hand through his hair; and Athos is newly confused to realise that what he’s feeling through the bond is _embarrassment_. “When I told you about my relationship history, such as it is – I really wasn’t exaggerating when I said it was something of a revolving door situation. The truth is, I’m not sure I’ve ever even got to the point where the new relationship energy’s worn off. Well, maybe once or twice, but… that was generally where we went and found a friend. To spice things up. So perhaps I’m not a good benchmark for what’s – well. Average.”

“Right,” Athos replies slowly, spearing a water chestnut with his chopstick and crunching through it just to give himself a little time to think. “Well, perhaps don’t look at me for that either.”

He only has two data points of his own: the first one being an initial grateful enthusiasm followed by the guilty realisation that try as he might, he just couldn’t think himself in love; and the second being something that he doesn’t even want to start thinking about with Aramis present for fear of where it might take him.

“Well, the number’s not important. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Aramis promises – a little too optimistically, Athos thinks. “When we come to it, we’ll work out what works for us. But I thought now might be a good time to talk about what you might like us to do together. Sexually, that is.”

“I really hadn’t thought about it,” Athos confesses. He wants this to work, after all, he can admit that much to himself; and he tends to find that the less thinking he does about any given subject, the better. “It’s… been good so far?”

“Alright,” Aramis replies, determinedly positive, “so if we start simple, and we can – always talk about other things later. I generally prefer to bottom, personally, though both work.”

Athos almost says _what?_ when he realises that Aramis must be referring to anal sex, which is not a question Athos thought he’d ever be asking himself.

He imagines letting Aramis penetrate him there, and the sudden jolt of unease that the idea gives him is a clear indicator that he’s nowhere near ready for that.

“I have no experience in that area,” he replies stiffly.

“No worries, we can just take it as it comes,” Aramis reassures him, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. “I mean, the most important thing is that you enjoy yourself.”

“What about you, though?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Aramis replies, with a smile that’s bordering on wicked. “I’m fairly sure I’d enjoy anything you might suggest.”

“Right,” Athos says again, turning to attack his chicken with renewed interest.

Aramis at least lets Athos finish eating before he curls up against him, burying his feet beneath the sofa cushions and reaching for Athos’ hand as Athos slings his other arm automatically around Aramis’ neck.

It’s easy, this, easier every time.

“You know,” Aramis says, deceptively conversationally, fingers twisting in Athos’ grip, “I’m glad it was you I met.”

What separates Athos from normal people is not so much his sadness, he has long thought, but his weakness, his utter lack of resilience regarding what life throws at him. Where others can go through life like Aramis does, buoyant and secure in themselves, for Athos a single moment in time, one thing said in the wrong way, is enough.

He tries valiantly to squash down the immediate rejection of Aramis’ words that rises in his mind, but when Aramis turns to stare at him, he can see that he’s failed.

“You’re surprised,” Aramis murmurs, wide-eyed, and not bothering to ask Athos what he feels, “and you don’t want me to know. Do you not believe me, then?”

Though their acquaintance has not been long, Athos has never known Aramis lie about how he feels, or even try to conceal it, save that one incident in the bedroom last night, where all he wanted was not to freak Athos out. Athos, by contrast, feels as though he himself has been doing almost nothing but concealing since they met; and that only makes him feel worse, and even less deserving.

“I have never known you lie to me,” he replies cautiously; but he can see the moment that understanding dawns in Aramis’ face.

“It’s not that you don’t _believe_ me, isn’t it, it’s that you think I’m wrong. Oh, _Athos_ ,” he replies, resting his head back on Athos’ shoulder; and Athos can’t help feeling newly worse for the pain he’s clearly causing. “Do you really think so little of yourself?”

There is, of course, only one answer to that question.

“Look. I know this is something I can’t just fix like that,” Aramis continues, though sounding more as if he’s trying to convince himself than Athos. “And that I can’t just tell you what I think of you and have you believe it. But I can tell you what I think of you and you’ll have to believe that _I_ believe it, at least. Right?”

“Is there any way I can stop you?” Athos asks, mostly rhetorically, through the tightness in his throat.

“Look at me, please,” Aramis insists, and Athos reluctantly meets his dark eyes, large with concern, because he can’t help thinking that Aramis will beg if he doesn’t.

“You’re clever, and you’re thoughtful, and you’re interesting – don’t argue,” he says, holding up a hand when Athos opens his mouth to say how can he be interesting when he never even does anything. “You deal with a hell of a lot of shit every day that you can’t do anything about, and you just get on with things, I never hear you complaining about it. You’re open-minded, you went from being straight and bond negative to being bonded to me and you’ve dealt with it remarkably even though I’m sure I must drive you up the wall sometimes. And most of all, I can tell you care about me. You always listen to what I have to say, even when it’s inane, which I know it sometimes is, and you go out of your way to make me happy. So. I guess you’ll just have to deal with the fact that I... want to be with you. Not just because I already am, because you're you.”

Aramis at least doesn’t seem to need a reply, just buries his head in Athos’ shoulder and throws his arms around him; and Athos pulls him into an approximation of a hug.

All the shit he's dealing with he let happen in the first place, and he’s not as clever as Aramis seems to think – not in the ways that matter, not enough to pull himself out of this hole; but Aramis is right in that he _does_ care about him being happy, far more than he cares about himself, and he supposes he can accept that as something good about him.

If one of them can be happy, at least, that’s definitely better than none.


	28. Chapter 28

The next morning, Athos’ alarm goes approximately two minutes before the landline starts ringing, which is also before he's had a chance to properly wake up.

There are very few people who ever ring his landline, certainly at nine on a morning.

_Back to work, then._

He stumbles out of bed, grabs the blanket from the sofa on the way over and picks up, already switching on his computer. “Hello?”

“ _Athos_.” It's Tréville. “ _Good morning. I’ve got a roll-out for Notre-Dame Ltd. that’s about to miss three major milestones right in the middle and it’s going to bollocks up both our timeline and our budget, and everyone in there’s getting chummy with everyone else and I can’t get the blocks shifted from here. I’ve emailed you everything you’ll need_.”

“Alright,” Athos replies, repressing a sigh. At least it’s friends in high places screwing up this particular project and not somebody’s personal problems, he decides, though every time Tréville calls him he wonders for a moment why he’s still doing this job. “I’ll fix it.”

“ _Good man. Are you well?_ ”

“I am, thank you,” Athos replies evenly, ignoring the small flush of shame he can’t help feeling whenever Tréville enquires as to his health. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

It takes Athos all morning and half of the afternoon to read all the documents Tréville sends him, get up to speed on how the project has progressed so far and figure out where the impediments are most probably coming from, before calling all the individual product owners anyway and listening to each of them in turn spout meaningless business jargon at him while he drinks endless cups of coffee and doodles increasingly elaborate geometrical structures on his notepad, making reassuring noises in response to the series of vague excuses coming his way. They’re just courtesy calls really, each one a complete waste of both their time and his; and he’s counting the minutes until he can get off the phone with the last of them and call someone who will actually tell him what’s going on.

As he takes five minutes at some point around one to go to the toilet and shove a couple of cereal bars into his face, he wonders if he'd think it was good to be getting back to work, if he actually had any time spare to think.

He’s on the phone to Mel when he hears Aramis get in – is it four already, then? – and sees him poke his head round the door, no doubt surprised to see Athos both on the phone and sitting at his desk. He makes as if to come over, but when Athos waves him away he just smiles and blows him a kiss before disappearing from view, leaving Athos smiling slightly into the mouthpiece.

Mel is at least helpful, and informs him the person dropping the ball on this one is Stefan – _of course it is,_ Athos thinks with an internal sigh, who else would it be but a member of the old boys’ network, conveniently ignoring the fact he’s been guilty of exactly the same thing himself in his time – and that Miranda is pregnant but not telling anyone yet, so can he make sure all her stuff is really well-documented while he's at it; and as he hangs up he considers going to say a proper hello to Aramis, but it’s getting on half four alrady and he really needs to get this before close of play.

He finishes the last of his cold coffee, and dials Stefan’s direct line.

“Stefan. Athos de la Fère. You know why I’m calling.” Athos refuses to sigh – there are limits – but he does pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “You’ve missed your last three milestones without any satisfactory explanation, and I’m going to make sure you don’t miss the fourth. Right. I’ve looked at your product backlog items and development is looking the least dire, so we’re going to have a separate call in the morning to talk about how to break down the tasks and get them done in time. Meanwhile I’m transferring ownership of break-fix to Paul Devereux, all your level ones and twos will report to him just for this project, so please transfer your files to him and copy me in. No, I understand. No, I’m not surprised it was Louis' decision.”

Athos has thought Stefan a snake for many years, but it’s been a long day and he’s exhausted, and he makes the schoolboy error of thinking he can afford to relax and let his guard down a little just before Stefan says, “ _Anne’s doing well, by the way. I saw her at Richelieu’s garden party last month. She looks positively radiant_.”

 _Isn’t October a bit late for a garden party?_ a small, inappropriate part of Athos’ mind can’t help thinking as the rest of his chest cavity turns to ice.

When he replies, “I’m glad to hear it,” he’s staring at the strange interlinking shapes he doodled earlier and thinking _I hope you drop dead_.

He looks up to realise Aramis is standing in the doorway again, looking at him with clear worry; and even though Athos waves him off again, he doesn’t move as Athos makes arrangements for tomorrow morning’s call to go over development in detail, gives his best wishes to Mrs Stefan (whom he happens to know Stefan has cheated on at least twice), and finally hangs up.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks distinctly, and mindful of Aramis watching, gives in and puts his head in his hands.

It’s only a few seconds until he feels the calming warmth of Aramis’ hand curling around the back of his neck, his soothing touch spreading through Athos’ body, thawing his insides.

“I brought you a drink,” Aramis says, and Athos looks up to see a glass of wine at his elbow.

“Thank you,” he replies gratefully, taking a sip and then another, ignoring his desire to down it all in one even with Aramis standing there watching him, the warmth of the alcohol travelling down into his stomach until he starts to feel somewhat human again.

“Are you okay?”

“I abhor that man,” Athos replies, getting up from his desk – and realising as he does so that he’s _exhausted_ , he hasn’t worked this hard in a couple of months, and he barely has the energy to shuffle through into the living room and collapse on the sofa. “Did I tell you what my job involves, because what I actually am is a very highly-paid babysitter.”

He expects Aramis to laugh, but when Athos looks up, he’s actually placing Athos’ drink down on the coffee table as he sinks to the sofa beside him, looking very serious. “There was something he said, though, right at the end. He upset you, I felt it.”

Athos pushes the renewed burst of apprehension down and away, and tries to keep his voice steady as he replies, “Stefan decided that in retaliation for my phoning and telling him in no uncertain terms that he’s screwed up, he would give me an unsolicited update on my ex-wife. Purely as a power play, of course. I probably should have seen it coming.”

“And which of them are you scared of? Him, or her?”

Aramis is looking at him steadily, and _he really means it,_ Athos realises as he fights with himself not to react. Not to let himself backslide, make it undeniable.

“I wasn’t scared,” he replies, his voice emotionless. “I just don’t appreciate discussion of my personal life from colleagues.”

“That’s bullshit, though,” Aramis insists, and Athos can feel his frustration building, “you scared _me_ , and I didn’t even know why. So why don’t you try again.”

There’s something hard and unyielding in Aramis’ eyes that Athos isn’t sure he’s ever seen before – and he knows when he’s beaten, he always has, but he can’t talk about this now, not after the day he’s had, he just _can’t_ –

And Aramis must sense his panic, because he reaches out at last, taking Athos’ hands in his and shuffling along the sofa to press his thigh against Athos'. “If you can’t talk about it yet, that’s all you have to say,” Aramis reassures, all the frustration of the moment before gone. “Just don’t lie to me, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Athos whispers, leaning in to rest their foreheads together for a moment, drawing his strength there. “I just –”

Sometimes he wonders if he’d say anything just to get everyone to leave him alone, let him lick his wounds in peace.

“It’s instinctual, sometimes,” he makes himself say. “I know it’s shitty of me, but –”

He’d never used to lie before Anne; but at some point, pleasing her became more important than his own honour, became about survival. Just another way in which she broke him, of course.

“It’s difficult to admit to things we don’t like about ourselves,” Aramis reassures, hand coming up to stroke Athos’ hair. “I know, I’ve been there myself. But if we want to change them, then that’s what we have to do first.”

Athos doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know what he could say that would express the depth of his feeling; and so he kisses Aramis instead, hands coming up to stroke his jaw, feeling an almost painful tenderness crash into him like a breaking wave.

Aramis makes a little sound in his throat, surprised and pleased, and then he’s pushing himself up and swinging his legs over so he’s practically in Athos’ lap, clutching at Athos’ back as he tugs at his lower lip with just a little teeth.

Athos feels the first stirrings of arousal thrumming through him, and he isn’t sure what Aramis is doing but he decides he doesn’t care, pulls him closer still before running a hand up his thigh, weaving the other hand into his hair and tugging, manoeuvring his head so Athos can kiss along the line of his neck.

That’s enough to have Aramis moaning and writhing a little in his lap; and the last thing Athos wants is to have Aramis grind against him for half a minute till he comes, and so he pulls at the link until the sense of Aramis in his head is muffled, little enough that he can take his time, see through the idea that’s just come bursting into his head like a firework.

There’s something harsh behind it, he can tell – something sharp, that same kind of defiant energy that fuelled his anger at Anne yesterday, when he first faced up to what she did to him. But it’s not _about_ her, he decides, it’s about him: about taking back his sexuality, which he’s left lying at her feet for far too long.

Suddenly, he's not tired any more.

He tugs Aramis back by the hair until their eyes meet.

“Jeans and boxers down,” he demands, “and straddle my thighs.”

As Aramis stands, Athos manoeuvres himself as far back into the sofa as he can, staring into Aramis’ flint-black eyes, the smile curling at the corners of his mouth, as he pushes his hoodie back off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, slides his hands over the planes of his stomach, above his T-shirt, and syrup-slow, undoes the buckle on his belt.

Athos forgets how to breathe.

Aramis grins.

“Don’t look at my face,” he says, tone brimming with satisfaction; and Athos obediently drops his eyes to where Aramis is unzipping his jeans, before pushing them off his hips with a little shimmy as if he’s no stranger to giving a striptease on demand, before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and easing them down and off his half-hard cock, pushing them down towards his knees.

 _He shaves_ , Athos thinks faintly as he looks his fill, mouth as dry as a desert with just how much he _wants_ this.

As he just sits there, staring, cock pulsing urgently in his jeans and hands curling into fists at his sides, Aramis appears to take pity on him, planting his knees on the sofa either side of Athos’ hips and sitting across his spread legs, jeans and underwear still around his ankles. “And what would you like next, love?” he murmurs seductively, clasping his hands together around the back of Athos’ neck.

Athos doesn’t reply, just reaches out to pull the hem of Aramis’ T-shirt up with one hand as he reaches for his cock with the other.

It’s surreal, he decides. It’s positively pornographic, the overhead lights on bright and Aramis straddling him on the sofa as Athos strokes him to full hardness, learning him with his fingers, memorising him with his eyes. It’s almost ridiculous how much he wants this, and Aramis is hardly helping, the series of gasps and groans issuing from his open mouth that sound like they belong on film; watching his own hand sliding up and down another man’s shaft, borderline obscene.

“Why do you shave?” he rasps.

He doesn’t need to look up to hear the laughter in Aramis’ voice. “For the sensory experience. Oh, and it makes my cock look bigger.”

 _The sensory experience,_ Athos thinks, moving his hand back to cup Aramis’ balls, rolling them between fingers and palm in the way he likes himself; and Aramis hisses as he throws his head back, groaning, “ _God_ , just like that,” and Athos has to clamp down on the link anew as he feels himself losing it, as he feels the heat building between them, threatening to break free from his control entirely.

“I wish you could see yourself,” Aramis says, sounding inexpressibly fond for a man with his cock out, Athos decides, thumb stroking over Athos’ dry lips as Athos’ hand moves back up to his shaft. “The way you’re looking at me – no, don’t look up – like you want to memorise the sight of your hand on me, burn the image into your brain,” and _why is he talking?_ Athos wonders, suddenly flustered, swiping up a bead of fluid that threatens to drip from the tip of Aramis’ cock and for some reason finding he's surprised when Aramis bucks his hips.

Aramis keeps moving, starts to push his cock back and forth through Athos’ fist; and Athos concentrates on keeping the link taut and not losing the rhythm growing between them as he presses his other thumb into the hollow of Aramis’ hipbone, T-shirt still bunched in his hand there.

He’s concentrating enough that he can feel Aramis’ orgasm coming on, building even stronger and warmer in his temple; and Athos releases as much of the link as he thinks he can bear to without making himself come, gratified as Aramis groans low and needy, shuddering and spilling over his fist.

He starts to look around for a tissue or something to wipe his hand – but Aramis brings it to his lips, leaning forward to lick his own come from Athos’ thumb and finger, dark eyes holding Athos’ gaze, trapping him; and without Aramis’ arousal to focus on any more he’s suddenly aware of just how fucking turned on he is, his own cock painfully constricted by his jeans, almost gasping with it already though he hasn’t even been touched yet.

Aramis rocks forward on his knees and kisses him, and Athos licks the slight bitterness from his mouth and thinks, _this is how he tastes_ as Aramis undoes his belt and then his fly with quick fingers, drawing his cock out through his boxers, Athos huffing a jagged breath into Aramis’ mouth at the feeling of his hands on him, at last.

“I’m going to go down on you,” Aramis murmurs against his lips, “is that alright?”

“That’s fine,” Athos manages, watching as Aramis scoots back until he’s only half-on the sofa with his feet back on the floor, before curling in on himself and taking Athos in his mouth – and Athos was going to last, he was going to not embarrass himself, but when he feels Aramis take the head of his cock into his throat and swallow around him he loses his grip entirely and comes with a groan, his hands fisting in the material of Aramis’ T-shirt.

Before he knows it Aramis is in his lap again, kissing him gently down from his high, as tender as he was wicked just minutes before.

“Your first time being deep-throated?” Aramis asks, a smile in his voice; and it cuts straight through Athos’ post-orgasm haze like a knife through butter, as he can’t help frowning, wondering _what the hell makes him ask that?_

“No, actually,” Athos replies shortly, refusing to overthink it. Perhaps he just gives off the air of being generally sexually clueless, which wouldn’t surprise him. “And – I do need to get back to work, I’m afraid,” he says apologetically, pulling Aramis in for another kiss to soften the blow.

“Seriously?” Aramis asks, seeming to visibly deflate at the news. “Have you even eaten?”

“I had a sandwich at some point?” Athos replies, because he thinks he did. “I’d really appreciate it if you could sort something. I have a telephone meeting with Stefan at nine thirty tomorrow morning where I need to explain to him exactly how I’m going to restructure his workload so he stands a chance of delivering his part of the project on time, which means I need to work it out myself first – and you’ve seen me in the mornings.”

“I can reheat the rest of the Chinese?” Aramis offers, though Athos can sense the disappointment in him; and reminds himself firmly that Aramis hadn’t even expected him to be working today or at any point in the future, let alone having any idea of what kind of hours his work might involve.

“Thank you. I do appreciate it,” Athos makes a point of saying, kissing Aramis again. “And I’ll let you know how long I’ll be busy for once I have an idea of it myself.”

“How late tonight, or…?”

“I meant more in the sense of whether this is going to take days or weeks to sort,” Athos clarifies.

“Okay. I’ll let you know when it’s ready,” Aramis replies, finally getting up; and Athos belatedly realises he’s still sitting there with his cock out and tucks himself awkwardly back in, pushing away the vague sense of guilt at his own lack of attentiveness – work is work, and he probably didn't even really have time for the sex they've just had – before getting up and going back into his office, ready to figure out how to get Stefan out of the latest hole he’s dug.


	29. Chapter 29

Between all the inevitable problems with the development restructuring, Paul’s complaints about Stefan’s team’s documentation (only half of which are justified, Athos decides, leaving him wondering if Stefan’s stuck the boot into Paul as well at some point), and several increasingly fractious conversations with Tréville about the fact that he can have this project delivered either on time or under budget but at this point he has to pick one, Athos is still untangling all the various strings three days later.

He lasted a day and a half before he started drinking at his desk, which he’s perversely proud of; but after an hour on the phone listening to Paul objecting to ‘ _English documentation practices’_ and probably using the most complex French he knows in an attempt to throw Athos off entirely, he ended up giving in, telling himself wryly that if there’s one thing he’s sure the French office understands, it’s a glass of wine with lunch.

He's been working consistently through into the evenings, and he could sense Aramis’ vague discontent throughout, as he spent solitary hours watching Netflix on his laptop, but there’s simply no time for it: Athos has to get this project back on track, and he’ll work until it’s done. Besides, he _likes_ his job, underhand tactics from self-important middle managers notwithstanding, and he knows he’s good at it. He likes having an overview of the whole project, slotting all the pieces together, the opportunity to be reactive. He especially likes not being beholden to anyone by either company politics or position, prefers it to when he was an employee, even if it means dealing with people like Stefan.

He’s going to be better about this from now on, he decides, stay in closer touch with Tréville, get his head back in the game. He likes who he is when he’s working, when everything that’s wrong with him stops being relevant and he becomes nothing more than his ability to deliver.

He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that the next day was Aramis’ day off, but it still manages to surprise him when his alarm goes and he sees Aramis still beside him, turning his face up sleepily for a kiss, before Athos drags himself out of bed and in the direction of the coffee maker, feeling distinctly overtired.

He's gone from zero to twelve-hour days, he reasons, and at some point he knows he'll need to take a break. He just needs to make it through the initial restructuring phase first, is all.

Of course, the morning status call reveals that he’ll have to spend the next hour explaining to one of the French office product owners why they can’t change anything at this stage unless they want to bring the entire project to its knees for the next three months, and _of course_ because it’s the French office they’re making it difficult for him; and Athos is just through saying for the fourth time, “ _There is absolutely no way I’m approving this, I’m afraid you’ll just have to live with it,_ ” when he feels Aramis’ hands land on his shoulders, digging into the muscles.

Athos shrugs him off, and writes ‘Please don’t’ on his legal pad in English, underlining it for good measure; and he closes himself automatically off from the flash of hurt Aramis sends his way as he explains to Élodie, that _no, it is not nearly important enough to the functionality to warrant it_ as Aramis stalks from the room.

Aramis’ feelings niggle at him throughout the rest of the call, only compounding Athos' general irritation; and it’s only when it gets to lunchtime and he decides his hunger is overriding his desire to go and lie down for half an hour that he remembers what happened, and concedes that he probably has to try and deal with Aramis before anything else.

Aramis is sitting on the sofa, watching something on his laptop with his headphones in. When Athos waves a hand, he pauses it and pulls them off, with an expression that says, _what now?_

“Hello,” Athos says awkwardly, “would you like some lunch?”

The last thing he wants is to have to think about making lunch for two people, but given that Aramis is clearly pissed off with him, he supposes he should be the first one to extend a hand.

“No thanks, I just ate,” Aramis replies flatly. “I was going to offer, but I didn’t want to bother you again.”

He deserved that, Athos supposes.

“Alright,” he says, sinking down on the sofa beside Aramis, clasping his hands in front of him. “When I’m working, I need to be left alone to work. I know it’s your day off and you probably want to spend time with me, but I have to get this project back on track, and I can’t afford to give up any time for anything else today. Maybe you could go out somewhere?”

“Athos, it’s a _Thursday._ Everyone I know is at work. And – that’s not even the problem.”

“What is, then?”

“Right.” Aramis puts his laptop down on the coffee table. “I just… I could feel you were stressed and I just wanted to help, okay? I wasn’t trying to disturb you.”

“Okay. And while I appreciate that, it was an important call and it threw me off for a moment, which I really can’t afford.” Athos sighs. “The French office are like vultures. One sign of weakness and they swoop in for the kill. So I’m afraid I really do need you to leave me to it. Maybe go to the cinema or something?”

He didn’t mean it badly – he really didn’t – but Athos knows he’s pretty much running on fumes at this point and he just about has enough energy left to keep himself awake and upright, so he’s not surprised he manages to say something which Aramis immediately takes the wrong way, flashing hurt and anger, his expression shutting off as he closes the lid of his laptop and snaps, “Fine. I’ll get out of your way.”

The inevitable wave of guilt as Aramis goes into the hall to put his shoes on is severely muted by the fact that Athos is almost too exhausted to care, though it's still enough to make him want to bang his head against the coffee table; but he reasons that if Aramis can feel the way he feels and is choosing to ignore it, then why should he be the one to go after him, and try yet again, which he’ll probably fuck up equally badly?

Above it all he’s uncomfortably aware of his growling stomach and the clock ticking, and just how many members of the break-fix team he has to chase this afternoon to find out why they’re not delivering to target. Which will be much easier with Aramis out of the house and out of his mind, rather than sitting in wait in the living room, radiating displeasure.

Athos puts his head in his hands and waits for the front door to close, after which he eats a ham sandwich and a banana, before going through the break-fix overview and making a list of who needs chasing up, subdivided into those who will respond usefully to emails and those he has to actually phone.

By the time half five rolls around he decides there’s at least nothing he has to do until tomorrow morning; and he turns his computer off with a sigh of profound relief, walking through into the living room – which is dark, Aramis still isn’t back then – and considers making something to eat for approximately half a second before the idea makes him feel far too much like crying.

 _Sleep, then,_ he decides, the desire to lie down and shut his eyes and have it all go away for a bit even stronger than his desire for a drink, and he just about bothers to kick his trousers off before getting into bed and pulling the covers around him, feeling an oncoming headache throb in his temples and resigning himself to the fact that he probably won’t sleep after all, though the idea of getting up again is just too much to bear.

When he hears the front door slam, he reflexively checks the time, surprised to see that it’s gone eight – and he hears Aramis calling out softly, “Athos?”

“In here,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, and screws his eyes shut, hoping Aramis doesn’t decide now would be a good time to put the overhead light on.

“Are you okay?” Aramis says, cautiously, as if he’s wary of asking; and _I’ve made him afraid of me,_ Athos can’t help thinking, the guilt rushing in like water into the hull of a sinking ship, the weight of it like something crushing his chest.

He’s dimly aware of Aramis lying down beside him and reaching out, and Athos turns into his embrace, letting Aramis rub his back and murmur, “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” even though it isn’t, Athos is pretty damn sure of that.

“I called Porthos,” Aramis says nervously, when Athos’ panic starts to recede a little, “I hope that’s okay? I just couldn’t think who else…”

“Of course,” Athos replies groggily, wondering _why wouldn’t it be_ , “he’s your friend too” – and it’s not until Aramis’ hesitation is replaced with relief that Athos realises _that’s_ what he must have been worried about, and not about seeing Athos again at all.

“I’m glad,” Aramis replies, burying his nose in Athos’ hair, “he was really great. And he pointed out to me that you’re used to doing your own thing and that you’re not always going to be around to keep me entertained, so I’d better make sure I can keep myself busy. What about you, what was all that about just now?”

“I thought I was the reason you were nervous,” Athos forces himself to say, pushing away the memories of feeling that way himself whenever he looked at Anne, still roiling beneath the surface, and always threatening to take him back to that place.

Though Athos can’t quite see Aramis staring at him in the darkened room, his head silhouetted against the light coming through the open bedroom door, he can feel his clear worry as he says, “Come here,” and presses his lips against Athos’ forehead, pulling him even closer into his chest and letting him press his face there.

“So let me get this straight,” Aramis says carefully, “You’re not feeling like this because of what happened earlier – because of the conflict itself – but because you thought you’d hurt me. Right?”

“Right,” Athos admits, keeping his face resolutely buried against Aramis’ collarbone.

“So I think we need to talk about this,” Aramis says, and Athos tries as hard as he can to stay calm as he continues, “because it was a small disagreement and I went off in a huff, and now this… the last thing I want to do is invalidate your feelings, but I can’t help feeling it was out of proportion. So what else is behind this?”

 _Aramis is hurting_ , Athos reminds himself fiercely, _he’s worried about you_ ; and if the only way to stop Aramis worrying is to talk about how he feels, he will make himself do it.

“You reminded me of myself,” he says, reaching for Aramis’ hand and drawing strength from his touch, its reassuring warmth. “The way I used to be, and it – the last thing I wanted was to put you in that position.”

“With your ex-wife? I know you said that she didn’t give you enough affection.”

“When she – later on,” Athos forces the words out, “she started to push me away, like I did to you today.”

“ _Was_ it like that, exactly?” Aramis asks; and everything in Athos goes very still and very cold as he lets himself remember it. The coldness in her, the remarks, designed to cut him down where he stood, the way she made him fear her, anxious just to come into the same room.

Aramis could never be like that.

“No,” he concedes. “I – I didn’t mean I wanted you to leave. I just needed the space, to work, and I thought you might like to go out and do something you’d enjoy more than being alone in the house. I just didn’t say it right.”

Aramis murmurs something in Spanish against Athos’ brow, very softly. “Then it’s not like that at all, is it? You’re not pushing me away if it happens once. Not even if we go off and we come back a few hours later when we’ve cooled down, and talk about it then. And not if talking about it makes it better. If we never talked about it afterwards, or it happened all the time, then we’d have a problem. But not _once_. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Athos murmurs shakily, squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden relief.

“There we go,” Aramis coaxes, squeezing Athos’ hand. “And I’m sorry I didn’t realise just how deeply you get into your work. How you haven’t got a few minutes spare for a chat, or a cuddle. It seems like it really takes a lot of concentration.”

“It does,” Athos agrees, glad beyond measure for the change of subject. “Basically, they call me whenever a project goes off the rails. I find the problem – which is almost always someone behaving badly – and I first fix the main problem, then spend a lot of time holding individual hands and fixing all the subsidiary ones. It’s babysitting for grown-ups.”

“And do you like it? Because to be honest, everything you’ve said about it sounds horrible so far.” At Athos’ bemused expression, Aramis elaborates, “That guy yesterday talking about your ex-wife to get under your skin and the French office being like vultures?”

“Oh, well, the people are cut-throat, but that’s to be expected,” Athos replies, shrugging the shoulder he’s not lying on. “And I appreciate that I’m not bound by company politics and actually get to call them all on their terrible decisions. I like it because I’m good at it, I suppose. I have an overview of the whole process, and I swoop in where necessary and work out the kinks. Then once it’s done, it’s done, although it always drags on for far longer than it should.”

Whatever Aramis is about to say is interrupted by both their stomachs rumbling in unison; and Aramis laughs into Athos’ hair. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“Me neither,” Athos admits. “Shall we get something out of the freezer?”

Aramis grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	30. Chapter 30

Athos finally gets his long-awaited reprieve the next evening, when he’s run out of people on the break-fix team to phone around four o'clock and decides that he’s going to spend the evening with Aramis, to make up for his inattention; and he goes to fold and put away the laundry that’s been hanging up for days while Aramis makes dinner, feeling that he should be making himself useful as well, and better this than trying to get between Aramis and his plans for home-made lasagne.

They need to look into getting some more storage for the bedroom, Athos reminds himself as he opens up the cardboard box where Aramis keeps his jeans, to put some things away – and pauses as something shiny catches his eye.

He peers into the box, suddenly curious, and realises he’s looking at a pair of knickers in champagne satin, delicately edged with lace and topped with some sort of silver charm hanging from a tiny ribbon bow, which is what caught the light.

He’s just about decided he’s accidentally trespassed on something private when Aramis walks in.

“Oh, thank you love, that’s –”

He stops mid-sentence, frowns at Athos as if he’s trying to make sense of the reason he’s radiating the air of having been caught in the act – and then looks at the open box, and back at Athos, before the kind of embarrassment starts to pour through the link that Athos normally associates with himself.

And while Athos knows he often thinks of himself as an awkward person who’s unable to cope with emotion, when it’s Aramis who needs his support then he immediately knows exactly what he needs to do.

“I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” he says, holding out a hand, which Aramis steps forward to take gratefully as Athos sits on the end of the bed, pulling Aramis gently down with him, and trying hard not to jump to any conclusions. “If there’s any boxes you don't want me to go in or anything, just let me know.”

“No, it’s –” Aramis sighs, runs his spare hand through his hair. “I did want to talk about it. I just didn’t know when would be the right time. Still, why not now, the food won’t need me for a bit.”

Athos almost asks if he’s sure; but decides at the last moment to trust that Aramis knows his own mind. He doesn’t quite know what this is yet – ignoring the way the word _cross-dressing_ hovers in the back of his mind, like an untethered balloon – and he wants to, if it’s something that’s important to Aramis.

“Okay. So, why do you have women’s underwear?”

“It’s not women’s underwear,” Aramis replies, and Athos would recognise that shaky defiance anywhere. “It’s _my_ underwear.”

“Okay... well, perhaps you could tell me about it? Because I’d like to know, but I think I probably won’t ask the right questions.”

“Right. Well, it’s a sexual thing? Sort of, anyway. I mean I’m…” Aramis sighs, looks away. “I’ve not had a lot of practice explaining this. It’s something I like, but it’s more than that, it’s something that’s _important_. It’s – actually more of a gender thing, I suppose.”

“Alright, and what do you mean by 'a gender thing'?”

“Well, a couple of years ago I met someone who was – they didn’t feel either male or female inside, but rather somewhere in the middle.” Aramis’ fingers twist a little in Athos’, and Athos strokes his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles, hoping that it’s somewhat reassuring. “And it made me think about what I told you about before, the fairy princess dress. And a few other things that made me feel awkward growing up, like I didn't quite fit somehow. I’d always thought it was because I liked boys as well, but then it all started to fit together for the first time. And I realised it was because I wasn’t quite male, but sort of… almost-male.”

“Almost-male,” Athos repeats thoughtfully. He’s not entirely sure he gets it; he knows a little about transgender people, at least, but this is entirely new territory. “And is that – is that okay? For you?”

“It is, yeah,” Aramis replies, looking – and feeling – a lot brighter already. “I’m happy in my body, which makes me pretty lucky, really, and I don’t mind _too_ much if other people think of me as male, I suppose? People in the post office, that sort of thing. But the people I – well. I wanted my family and my close friends to know how I really felt inside. And now you, of course.”

Athos decides that a kiss will reassure Aramis as much as any words might; and so he follows his instincts and presses their lips together, and when there’s a little gratitude in Aramis’ kiss, a little desperation, he doesn’t show that he’s noticed.

“But it _is_ sexual?” Athos asks, when he realises he hasn’t got his head around the whole thing quite yet.

“Well, _that_ part isn’t. The gender part,” Aramis explains. “But how I like to express it is, I suppose? I mean, some genderqueer people – that’s when you’re in the middle – don’t feel like either, but in me, I feel like there’s some feminine mixed in with the masculine. And when I was a kid I could just play at it whenever I wanted, at that other aspect of me, but then I grew up, and… this is the only playtime adults have for themselves, isn’t it?”

Athos truly isn’t sure if the wistfulness he feels at that comment is Aramis’ or his own, rising between them like a mist, and he can’t help wishing there was something he could offer him – before he realises that there is.

The idea makes him unaccountably nervous; but for Aramis, he wants to at least try.

“Show me?” he asks. “If we’ve got time before dinner, that is.”

Aramis seems to be truly lost for words for a moment – and much like Athos, he decides to resort to actions, pulling him close for a long and lingering kiss. “For this, I’ve always got time,” he smiles, before getting up, picking up the knickers and walking out of the room. “Be right back.”

Athos rests his hands on his thighs and lets his mind wander as he waits. There’s nothing to think about, he decides; it will all become clear, and Aramis will guide him through.

When Aramis comes back in he’s wearing T-shirt and jeans still, but there’s a new purposefulness in his walk that charges the air between them, and Athos feels the stirrings of desire already.

“Tell me what you’d like me to do,” he says, nerves kicking in anew as Aramis stops in front of him, and Athos places his hands on Aramis’ hips, just over the waistband of his jeans. There’s an exposed inch of skin between his T-shirt and his jeans, and Athos is vaguely shocked by how strongly he wants to put his mouth over the trail of hair there.

He hadn’t entirely expected that he’d feel like the one who’s exposed here, but it seems that as soon as matters turn sexual, Aramis is immediately in his element, confident in himself and that Athos is right there with him, no matter how unsteady Athos might feel himself.

“Caress me,” Aramis replies immediately, looking down at Athos and taking his jaw in his hand, “undress me, piece by piece. Lay me out on the bed and touch me through the satin. You’ve always got such focus, such intensity, and I want you to turn fully that on me. Make me feel – beautiful. Desirable. The best way you know.”

Too overwhelmed by Aramis' words to speak himself, Athos just gets to his feet and pulls Aramis into an embrace, kissing him hard on the mouth and then moving his lips to his neck and throat, hands fisting in his T-shirt before pushing up the fabric to stroke over his stomach, trailing delicate fingers around and across his ribs, stroking down the small of his back.

When he runs a hand over Aramis’ nipple he certainly isn’t expecting him to buck his hips just a little, pressing forward against Athos, already half-hard despite Athos’ grip on their link. “ _Ohh_ ,” Aramis hisses, clutching at Athos’ waist, “use your mouth, love?”

Athos abruptly pulls Aramis’ T-shirt over his head and spins him round, pushing him gently down to the bed and bending over to kiss him on the mouth. He didn’t know that men liked that, and as he encourages Aramis to lie back on the mattress with a hand to the chest, he wonders if it would go for him too.

Athos kneels beside him on the bed and kisses him again, along his jaw to his ear, and down his neck, back up to the other side, moving over to straddle his hips as Aramis reaches for him, pushes his hands beneath Athos’ T-shirt and up his back, slides them down again to cup his arse. He wants to explore, Athos realises, to get to know every inch of Aramis’ skin, find all the points where he’s sensitive and make him feel good there.

He braces himself on one arm and lets the other guide the path of his lips, along Aramis’ collarbone, down his chest and onto his nipple, swirling and laving with his tongue, releasing his grip on the bond until Aramis nearly bucks off the bed, pushing his hips up, seeking contact.

Curious, Athos sits back – straddling Aramis’ thighs, careful to keep some distance between their groins and experimentally relaxes his mind and tightens again, sending waves of arousal pulsing through them both and just watching Aramis, the pure sex of his unfocused, heavy-lidded gaze, his hands sliding up and down Athos’ jean-clad thighs, clenching against the seams until he seems to snap, pushing himself up to a sitting position and hauling Athos into a rough kiss.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he complains, fingers stroking all over Athos’ shoulders, mapping him.

Athos pulls him back by the hair and raises an eyebrow, because Aramis is not the only one of them who can be obtuse in the bedroom. “This is just a test of our capabilities,” he informs him, deadpan. “It’s important to know what’s possible, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, no arguments there,” Aramis replies with a grin, and lets himself be pushed back to the bed. “But if you don’t get these jeans unbuttoned soon I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, but needs must.”

Athos rolls his eyes, but scoots backwards anyway, and lets his eyes drop to Aramis’ crotch, debating how he wants to do this.

“It’s not just decorative, you know,” Aramis points out archly, thrusting his hips a little in illustration.

“Quiet. I’m thinking,” Athos replies automatically, tracing his hand over the inside of Aramis’ thigh as he does so, faintly marvelling at the way Aramis’ legs fall just a little further open at his touch, easy and unashamed in his pleasure. It’s a far cry from how Athos feels when he thinks about being touched himself, that curious mix of fear and yearning, as if his need is a pit he can fall into, from which he'll never find his way out.

“And while I know it’s an appalling cliché to say ‘I can feel it from here’, in our case…” Aramis trails off, raising a smug eyebrow.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ Athos thinks, more at himself than at Aramis, and drops his hands to Aramis’ belt buckle, stroking two fingers lightly along the faint ridge of the erection just below.

“ _Ohh_ ,” Aramis groans, his arousal dragged back to the forefront of his mind; and he reaches for a pillow, pushing it beneath his shoulders and propping himself up on his elbows to watch, dark eyes sparkling. “This, I want to watch.”

Athos takes a few long moments to trace over the skin of Aramis’ stomach, skirting along his waistband, before unbuckling Aramis’ belt and the button of his jeans, unzipping his fly, and carefully parting the denim to reveal the champagne satin, reaching out to trace his fingers over the bow in the centre.

“Just a bit further,” Aramis says breathlessly, and Athos obediently tugs his jeans down a few inches when Aramis raises his hips, until they’re almost entirely off his hips and he can see Aramis’ cock outlined against the champagne satin, framed by his open fly.

 _Caress me, he said_.

Athos reaches out with three fingers to stroke along the length of Aramis’ satin-clad cock.

Aramis groans immediately, murmuring _oh God_ as he stiffens even further inside his knickers, beneath the caress of Athos’ hand as he adds his thumb to the mix. He’s not unfamiliar with lingerie, with the thin smoothness of silky fabric, but he was hardly prepared for the way he feels every detail of Aramis’ hardness through the material, how he groans and bucks his hips as Athos swirls his fingertips over the head of his cock, for how he’s starting to understand the sensuality of it.

When he lowers his head and mouths at the slowly-blooming wet spot beneath the fabric, he has to clamp down harder on the link as it feels for a moment as though Aramis will come from just that, his groan almost pained as he winds his hands into Athos’ hair, just resting them against his head.

“God, you’re amazing,” Aramis says, “please don’t stop. I want to come like this, with your mouth on me – _oh_ ,” as Athos sucks on the head of his cock through the satin before mouthing along the length of it, reaching into his jeans and rubbing his knuckles behind Aramis’ balls, pushing into the skin there as he mouths at him wetly until the fabric is soaked beneath his mouth.

He tries to use his tongue, but the satin is drying and too rough and it doesn’t seem to do much; so he just concentrates on giving pressure with his lips, while ever so slowly relaxing the link until Aramis murmurs hoarsely, “Look up at me” – and Athos tilts his head back, wondering why until he meets Aramis’ eyes, realises how it must look to him, and _yes_ , he thinks, letting go of the link entirely and sucking the head of Aramis’ cock into his mouth through the satin as he groans, cock jerking; and Athos sucks in his stomach and pushes his hand right down into his own boxers to stroke himself once, twice as he comes too, seeing stars with it, the bitter musk of Aramis’ come soaking through into his mouth.

Then Aramis is reaching for him, hands fluttering along Athos’ jaw and shoulders and arms as if he wants to touch everywhere at once; and Athos can feel he’s just about to say something when the oven timer goes off.

“Excuse me, love,” he laughs, pressing a bright-eyed kiss to Athos’ lips before getting to his feet, tugging his jeans back up. “That was incredible. But I should see to dinner first.”

Athos is left to change his boxers, smiling wryly to himself; and when he goes through to the kitchen a few minutes later, Aramis is just taking the oven gloves off, freshly-cooked lasagne waiting on the hob.

“Give it five minutes,” he says, reaching for Athos and pulling it close. “How was it, for you?”

“It was…” Athos lets himself take a moment, make sure he gets the right words. He doesn’t want to say _fine,_ or _interesting_ , or _nice_ , or anything that sounds less than sincere when it comes out of his mouth; but Aramis deserves the unvarnished truth, and not for him to overstate it.

“I enjoyed it,” he says in the end, “the sensory experience. It’s not a fetish for me personally, but I appreciate being able to share it with you.”

The force of Aramis’ answering smile is near-blinding, like he’s just been given the world, Athos thinks; and Aramis kisses him soundly before replying, “And that’s all I could ask. So. Dinner?”

Athos raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you still need to change your underwear?”

“Perhaps you could serve up for me then,” Aramis replies, reaching down to swat Athos good-naturedly on the arse. “Be right back.”

Athos rolls his eyes, but as soon as Aramis has left the room, the smile creeps onto his face and stubbornly refuses to leave it.  


	31. Chapter 31

The next week passes uneventfully, and when the thought occurs to Athos, he’s surprised by how much it feels like they’re getting into a routine. His work on the Notre-Dame project is ongoing and keeps him busy most of the day, ironing out minor creases in the workflow; and he spends his evenings with Aramis, making dinner and eating it, relaxing with a glass of wine and sometimes getting to know each other better, sometimes doing their own thing, normally with Aramis’ head in his lap and Athos’ hand in Aramis’ hair.

They’re still not – well. They’re _sort of_ having sex, Athos supposes, there are hand jobs and blow jobs and rutting together under cover of darkness; but at the same time there’s something missing, something held back. _He’s_ holding back, he knows it and Aramis knows it; and Aramis is being very good about not pushing, and not asking for more than Athos is giving, but that only seems to make it worse when Athos feels like he’s starting to get worse rather than better, at everything.

Athos has a rule, now: he doesn’t think about it while Aramis is around. Instead he takes moments out of his day and works maybe half an hour later for it, takes walks down by the river, stands on the little jetty where he first broke down, staring out into the slow-moving water that seems these days to be making more progress than he is, and tells himself that he _is_ going to talk about it, when he’s ready. All the while conveniently ignoring the fact that the days pass and he never comes any closer to it.

He doesn’t know why Aramis doesn’t ask him, when he’s supposed to be the one of them who likes to talk things through; but he’s been as determinedly cheerful as Athos has been determinedly calm, as if sustained good humour and a diet of regular orgasms will do anything more than paper over the cracks.

Athos, for his part, has been a fool for love once too often to be seduced by – well, by _being_ seduced.

He wonders if this is how things inevitably turn out, for normal people too as they learn to live with each other. _Not with a bang but with a whimper,_ wearing their respective masks until they fuse to the skin beneath. It's more than he could have hoped for when they bonded, even; just a steady, even pleasant companionship with no risks taken, and thus nothing to fear.

_That’s not quite true though, is it?_

It started so simply, so predictably: with Athos on the phone with the company’s hosting provider, of all things, because half the development team’s CMS passwords had chosen that day to stop working, Aramis coming home stressed and frustrated and needing attention, and Athos having to put the technical advisor on hold and say _look, I’m working right now, I’m sorry but I do not have the time._

And he expected anger, or sadness, but what he got was Aramis smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes and saying, “Fine,” before walking abruptly from the room, in an unconscious echo of the way Anne used to speak to him before she’d give him the silent treatment, make him feel a stranger in his own home for days.

When he finally got off the phone with the technical advisor he realised he was shaking; and Aramis was there again suddenly and in full nurse mode, making him have a cup of tea and a lie down for half an hour before he attempted anything else, and sitting with him and wordlessly stroking his hair.

He was calm again within a quarter of an hour, but the moment had happened; and that seemed to be all the permission that Athos needed to start seeing her everywhere, seeing her ghost over and over in things Aramis said and did. Stupid things, all of them: eating olives out of the pot with his fingers, and licking up the oil with a swipe of tongue; the way he’d make a sexual comment sometimes, his look just a little too sharply knowing.

The two of them are nothing like each other. Athos does believe that, at least, that it’s all in his own head. That he’s the one who’s going slowly crazy – and that Aramis is letting it happen, sitting back and waiting patiently for the day that Athos decides he’s going to be alright.

What scares him most of all is the thought that that day might never come.

He’s going to do it, he tells himself every time, he's going to talk about it. He’s just waiting for the right moment; and then he goes back to Aramis, or Aramis does to him, and he accepts his kiss and pours them both drinks and lets Aramis talk about whatever’s on his mind, and it’s all forgotten until late into the night, when he lies awake listening to Aramis’ steady breathing, feeling the sands slowly start to shift beneath his feet.

Some days he feels constantly on edge, like he’s waiting for everything he touches to splinter; so it’s perhaps ironic that it’s one of the better days, where he wakes from a dreamless sleep and all the fires to fight at work are at least relatively small ones, and they’re just sitting down to Aramis’ best Spanish omelette when things start to unravel.

The first sign is the landline ringing half way through dinner – and mindful of the approaching milestone, Athos smiles apologetically and says he’s afraid he’ll have to get it.

It’s Tréville, saying the client’s called a nine a.m. meeting and he wants Athos to dial in in case any specific updates are needed; and Tréville’s a straightforward man at least who doesn’t feel the need to chat, and Athos leaves himself a sticky note on his computer monitor and is back in the kitchen in under three minutes.

“Sorry about that,” he says, taking his seat again. “It was actually urgent, at least.”

“That’s quite alright,” Aramis replies; and it must be the way he’s holding his glass almost to his lips and Athos can’t quite see his mouth as he says suggestively, “I know a way you could make it up to me,” that makes him see not Aramis at all for a moment but Anne.

All he can think, as the breath feels as though it’s been punched out of him, his heart a freight train and his skin cold all over, is _it’s happening again._

 _I’ve been so stupid_ , he says to himself over the roaring in his ears as Aramis puts his glass heavily back down on the table and says his name, as if from far away. _So stupid_ to think that he could do this, that he wouldn’t turn Aramis against him too the way he turned her.

When Aramis kneels down by his chair, reaching for his hand and saying _I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry_ , Athos turns away from him and stumbles in the direction of the bedroom, all he can think of to get away, to the dark and the quiet and the closest he can come to not existing at all.

He feels the mattress dip as Aramis sits down behind him, urging, “Athos, breathe. Just breathe for me.”

He thinks about struggling as Aramis’ arms wrap around him, reaching for his hands – he can’t do this, he can’t, and he shouldn’t let him – but it helps, the warmth and the calmness flowing between them – Aramis is sending him calmness, he can feel it through the link – and what he wants more even more than to be alone is to stop panicking, not to feel like this, like he’s going to suffocate under the weight of his own fear.

So he lets Aramis hold him, and grips his hands until he’s sure it must hurt, counting the long minutes until he feels like he might be able to breathe again.

“There, that’s good, just stay calm,” Aramis murmurs, a hand coming up to stroke his hair. “I’m so sorry, love. You know I was joking, right? You do know that.”

Athos can’t bring himself to nod, because he _doesn’t_ know – some people probably like that kind of thing, and maybe Aramis is one of them. Maybe that’s fine, if one’s not so fucked up inside that the mere suggestion of it brings on a panic attack.

“I’ve let this get too far, haven’t I?” Aramis says suddenly, when the silence stretches on – and _that_ shocks Athos to sudden attention. “The truth is that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here, and I thought if I gave you time and space that that’d be enough, that we’d make each other happy, but it’s not working, is it?”

“What if we can’t?” Athos manages to whisper, his face pressed to the pillow, unable to suppress the full-body shudder that runs through him as the sudden rush of adrenaline drains away.

He’s not expecting Aramis to grab him roughly by the shoulder and insist, “ _Look_ at me!”

“We will, because we _have_ to,” Aramis says as he reluctantly turns around; and Athos can see the bright spark of anger in his eyes. “Listen – I’ve learned so much, these past few weeks, about what’s important. And whether we’re meant for each other or it’s just an accident of biology, whether you’re my one in a million or whatever it was you said –”

“One in ten thousand, they think.”

“– one in ten thousand, it doesn’t matter. What _is_ important is that we’re here and we’re together, we’re bonded, and we have to make it work. I thought I’d been handed my happiness on a silver platter – but I still have to make it, don’t I, and I’m not going to give up on you. I just fucking _refuse_.”

Aramis reaches up to swipe angrily at his eyes with a hand; and Athos can’t bear to see it so he buries his face in Aramis’ chest, biting his lip because he refuses to let himself cry as well, determined to keep at least some small measure of control.

“So… I think I need you to tell me now, what it is that’s still hurting you,” Aramis finishes; and it’s only the warmth and comfort of Aramis’ arms around him and the hand stroking his hair that stops Athos from trying to bolt, though he half-suspects that if he tried that, Aramis would just cling to him and not let him go. “I didn’t want to make you do this before you were ready, but I simply don’t see any other way.”

“I’m not sure I’d ever be ready,” Athos confesses against Aramis’ collarbone, breathing in his scent, working to keep his own voice under control.

It’s tantamount to an agreement, he knows, but even at his most selfish he can’t forget that he promised he’d do this. That facing up to everything that’s broken inside him may be his only choice if he wants to be stable enough, to at least allow Aramis some measure of happiness.

“So what was it that upset you,” Aramis presses, his hand rubbing soothing circles between Athos’ shoulder blades, down his back, “about the joke I made? I mean, I can guess that it was something to do with your marriage, but… would you tell me how things were, back then, so that I can make sure I don't ever do it again?”

He should think of something positive, Athos knows, of strength and healing. Of New Athos, of cutting away dead wood, any of those mantras he's given himself.

What he thinks of instead is the poem, even after all these years: that here he's standing, poised between the motion and the act, in shadow.

 _Life is very long._ 1

“She – it was alright, at first. We –”

_Sunlight on a broken column_  
_There, is a tree swinging_  
_And voices are_  
_In the wind's singing_

It surprises him that he still knows snatches of the words; but then he's never been very good at forgetting.

He can’t bring himself to say _we loved each other, we were happy;_ even more shameful than what she did to him is the fact that he loved her throughout it.

“She used to make jokes like that, but I thought – nothing of it. It was me. She wanted me to –”

 _Go on darling, make it up to me,_ as he knelt on the floor, her back against the wall and her cunt against his mouth, her hands in his hair holding him there as he worked at her near-frantically.

“She wanted you to make things up to her, with sex?” Aramis supplies, when he doesn’t answer.

The words sound so easy, when Aramis says them.

“Yes.”

She’d never touch him afterwards. The first few times he hadn’t been able to stand it, so worked up from making her come that he’d gone and jerked himself off in the bathroom – but she knew, and the way she looked at him was beyond bearing, even worse than the way his body ached for her.

“And this wasn’t – a game of some sort, that you agreed to play together? This was real?” Aramis asks, and Athos isn’t so clueless that he can’t hear the hope in Aramis’ voice, that he doesn’t want it to be real any more than Athos ever has.

“No,” he makes himself say, choking around even that one simple word, that he’d never so much as thought of saying to her.

Would things have been different if he had? He can’t imagine they would have been. He would have had to have been a different man, to ever have thought of refusing her a single thing.

“Athos, look at me.” There’s enough light coming in from the living room that Athos can see the concern in Aramis’ eyes, as he takes Athos’ face in his hands and says very seriously, “You do know that that was abusive, right? Please tell me you do. To place any kind of condition on sex, that you didn’t both agree to beforehand. That was wrong of her.”

“I let it happen,” Athos argues, before he can stop himself; and Aramis closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath as he presses their foreheads together.

“Athos. Athos. That doesn’t matter. There are _so_ many reasons why you might let someone. It doesn’t change the fact that it was wrong. Please, tell me you understand that.”

 _Does_ he?

That was how it started, he knows that much. How she made him weak, began to break him down.

“Yes,” he admits eventually, just breathing the words into the space between their mouths, “I do. I just don’t – always feel it.”

It hurts to admit, a sharp pain in his chest; and Athos presses his hand over his heart as if that will help dull the pain, dull the shame of admitting to just who he is.

“This is a really shit analogy, and I’m not trying to draw _any_ comparisons between your experiences and mine,” Aramis says, hand stroking stray pieces of Athos’ hair from his forehead, “but we all feel that way about things in our lives. I’ve lost patients before – _children_ – and even though I know enough to know that we did all we could, I can’t help turning it over and over in my mind, looking for the magic bullet, the thing we could have done that we didn’t, and maybe they’d still be here. It fades, and eventually you don’t wonder quite so much, but you never quite forget.”

Aramis falls silent, and Athos doesn’t quite know what to say; so for a few moments they just hold each other tightly, as if they can keep the rest of the world at bay outside the circle of their arms.

Athos knows that Aramis means to make him feel better about what he let Anne make him into, reassure him that it’s normal, that anybody else would have been as weak; and while he does appreciate the gesture, he’s not sure it’s of any use. Anyone else may have been weak, but he _was_ ; and it’s him who has to live with it.

“So…” Aramis begins, fingers reaching for Athos’ hand, “will you tell me what else happened that still hurts? Just so that I can make sure I never do anything like that, not even as a joke.”

 _There’s no way out_ , Athos thinks – and that in itself is strangely calming.

When he has a choice, he can always fail.

When he has none – well, if the pain were enough to kill him it would have done so years ago, so he supposes he will do this, and he will survive it.

He takes a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _The Hollow Men_ , T.S. Eliot.


	32. Chapter 32

“I don’t know,” he says haltingly, “if that was even where it started, what I told you. We were wrapped up in each other from day one, to the exclusion of all else, really. I just – did whatever she asked, without even thinking.”

He could make himself say that he would have done anything to please her, that he adored her, worshipped her – but the thought turns his stomach, and he assumes it’s assumed, given that he married her. Perhaps he doesn’t quite have to admit to it.

“We only dated for a few months before we married. My parents died rather suddenly – a car accident, Tom was at the Sorbonne getting up to God knows what kind of trouble, and she was the one who helped me keep all the balls in the air. It never would have occurred to me not to propose, I think.”

He can’t stop the memories: her simple white dress, the little blue flowers woven into her hair, taking her hands at the altar. Tom behaving himself for once, Porthos in his dress uniform, standing tall; the two empty spaces where his parents should have been. Anne’s own parents notable by their absence, but the moment still eclipsed by their poised, graceful daughter taking centre stage.

Everything that once made him happy now makes him hurt, and he was never happier than on that day.

“I don’t know when it started,” he says again, hearing his own voice as if it’s someone else’s entirely. “She did – what I told you. If I upset her then I could always make it up to her with sex.”

“Did you upset her a lot?”

The question seems innocent, but it strikes at something deep; and Athos has to clutch tightly to Aramis’ hands between their bodies before he admits, “Yes, she – she expected to be treated like a queen, and sometimes I was – too reserved at first. In front of our friends. I thought that my… love for her was a private thing, and I think she wanted everyone to see it. She always worried about how other people saw her. I never understood it.”

“People like Porthos?”

“No,” Athos replies, thrown for a moment before he realises he hasn't actually explained, “Porthos was still in the army then, we didn’t see each other often. And when we did, she – I think she wanted our other friends’ approval. Maybe because of her background. Porthos she was just wary of. I think she saw him as a threat. Especially after I told her…” He feels suddenly very much like crying for a moment, and pushes it down, mumbling, “I should never have told her.”

Aramis frowns. “I’m afraid I’m not quite following. She was scared of losing you to Porthos?”

“She knew it wasn’t really like that. But it was a – a reason, not to have him around.” Athos can’t quite bring himself to say the word _excuse_. “She didn’t push too hard, she knew I would have stood my ground, but I could tell, though I didn’t want to admit it. She’d be perfectly polite, but – cold, and then sometimes when we were alone she’d make these – comments, about him. _Sexual_ comments.” He can’t help screwing up his nose in disgust at the memories. “And then she’d look at me expectantly, like of course I’d been thinking of it as well. And I _hadn’t_ , I tried so hard never to –”

He’s losing his grip on himself, and he stops, takes a shuddering breath, and tries to push the panic away, the awful echo of that desperation to please her, to make her happy again.

“I don’t know what he thought. He never asked me. He probably knew he wouldn’t have got anything useful from me if he had. I was in too deep, and by the time it changed I would have been too ashamed to admit to any of it.”

Aramis’ eyes are wide, and scared as he asks, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer, “What changed?”

“She changed. We’d always been very – insular. Dependent on each other for everything. I thought it was romantic, that that was how we were supposed to be together, and it had always seemed like what she wanted. But gradually I realised it was becoming easier to upset her and harder to make her happy, and when I did upset her she stopped letting me – make it up to her.” He squeezes his eyes shut against the memory of throwing himself to her feet, the words that came out of his mouth, that make him feel physically sick to remember. “I gave her everything she told me she wanted, and –”

He takes a deep breath, determined to get it all out now, so he never has to say this again.

“She expected me to act the same in public, play the part, but afterwards – though that never made her happy either. I drank too much, I looked too much at other women. Or other _men_.” He can’t help wincing at the memory. “In the end I stopped wanting to go anywhere or see anyone because it always managed to upset her. Eventually all I did was work. And sometimes I came home and – she wasn’t even there. If I asked where she’d been she’d always tell me, but she was disappointed that I didn’t trust her.

“I knew – I knew things weren’t right, by this point, but I was still desperate for her approval. I truly believed that if I tried a little harder, gave her a little more attention, things would go back to how they were. But instead it just made her crueller. Until one day, she left me. For my brother, apparently.” He doesn’t miss the way Aramis flinches. “I didn’t believe her. I knew what she was doing by then, I thought she was just saying what she thought would hurt me the most. I didn’t believe it until he was found dead in an apartment in France a week later. They’d been there together.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Aramis murmurs, his hand lingering against Athos’ jaw as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. “Was she involved somehow?”

“I honestly don’t know. Officially, it was death by misadventure.” Athos sighs a little, and allows himself to lean into the pressure of Aramis’ hand. “A drug overdose, which didn’t exactly surprise me with Tom. But when I heard, I – felt, instinctively _,_ that she had something to do with it. Probably not on purpose, but nor was she there for some innocent reason. But I don’t expect to ever learn the truth.” He closes his eyes again, and tries not to let on how truly, painfully grateful he is for the kiss Aramis presses to his forehead.

“If it had just been her – if it had been over when she left me – then I think I would have been alright. But then Tom –”

It’s at that point he gives up. He can’t explain what it was like to lose Tom, to lose both of them together. The grief; the guilt, for bringing Anne into their family. The guilt for the fact that in the last few years, he hadn’t really liked Tom all that much.

 _Well, now you know why I’m such a mess,_ he thinks, letting Aramis pull him into a new embrace and murmur soothing nonsense against his hair.

This time his eyes are dry. He doesn’t feel worse; he doesn’t feel better. He just feels drained, as though there’s nothing left of him to even hurt any more.

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asks, stroking over the bare skin inside his collar.

“Don’t you know?” Athos asks wearily, suddenly a little annoyed that he’s put himself through all this, bared his soul and still Aramis isn’t satisfied.

“I want you to tell me,” Aramis insists, tucking Athos’ hair behind his ear in a gesture of care that has Athos floored for a moment, scrambling to recover the pieces of his thoughts that have just been scattered beyond his reach.

“Tired,” Athos eventually manages, because that’s pretty much it, “and like I could do with another drink.”

When Aramis doesn’t say anything, just nods, Athos finds himself speaking again.

“I know that she shouldn’t have treated me the way she did,” he says, though more for Aramis' benefit than his own. “I don’t believe she meant to, or that she even knew she was doing it –”

“Doesn’t matter,” Aramis interrupts; and it makes Athos see red suddenly.

“It _does_ matter!” he retorts, because _how could it not?_

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Aramis replies, immediately remorseful. “What I mean is, whether she meant to or not, it doesn’t mean she wasn’t abusive. That doesn’t change. But of course it matters.”

He sighs.

“Look, I don’t really know what to say, but… I don’t ever want to hurt you, okay? So if I do anything you don’t like, tell me, and I’ll stop. I swear it. Alright?”

“Alright,” Athos agrees cautiously. “But it’s not – look. I do know that you’d never do anything like she did. You couldn’t be less like each other. It’s just –” he can’t quite bring himself to say _she broke me –_ “it’s that patternicity thing we were talking about. Regardless of what I really think, it still happens.”

_And I don’t know how to make it stop._

And he’s so, _so_ grateful when Aramis, voice full of sympathy, says, “And it’s been happening with me, hasn’t it?”

He doesn't think he could ever have said it himself; but now that the question is asked, he can answer.

“They’re stupid things, mostly. Not even anything traumatic. Yesterday it was the way you were twirling that pendant you wear. How many millions of people do that?”

It’s awful how stupid he feels, that he knows it's meaningless and he still can’t stop it. The only thing worse is the panic, and even that sometimes not by much.

“If you want me to stop doing something, you only have to say.”

“No, that’s not the point!” He shouldn’t be getting frustrated with Aramis – if anything it should be the other way round – but Athos can’t help it, the temptation to take some of his own self-loathing out on Aramis for not getting it ever-present. “You _shouldn’t_ stop. You should just be able to be yourself, without me ruining it for you.”

“Okay,” Aramis says, and Athos can hear the heaviness in his voice, “while that’s so, _so_ not how it works… I think perhaps for now, we should take a break. Let's go and finish dinner, and have a nice glass of wine, and relax together?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, because he can’t help feeling he’s done enough for one night – enough for one lifetime, probably. “Let’s do that.”

Aramis microwaves what’s left of their omelettes, and Athos makes himself choke the food down, easing its way with copious amounts of wine; and Aramis refills his glass without asking, and presses his foot against Athos’ ankle under the table while they eat, its pressure keeping him anchored.

Afterwards, they go and sit on the sofa, and Aramis lies down with his head in Athos’ lap; and after a few seconds of Athos keeping silent and very still, Athos feels a ripple of exasperation through the link as Aramis picks up his hand and places it on his own head.

 _Right,_ he thinks awkwardly, and as requested, scratches behind the ears.

He might have just been played, he realises a few minutes later as he starts to feel himself relax; but he isn’t sure, and he certainly isn’t going to ask. It’s true, anyway, that Aramis does nothing less than preen under his touch, shifting his head gently beneath Athos’ hand to encourage it to where he likes it best, and the warm approval radiating through the bond lifts Athos’ own mood a little too, though he’s no more than the moon reflecting the sun’s light.

Still. It’s not like he _enjoys_ the sense of existential despair that seems to follow him around like his own shadow.

What he does enjoy is the weight of Aramis’ head across his thighs, the way he cranes his neck a little, baring his throat as if he’s inviting Athos to press his hand there. Athos enjoys – no, _adores_ being able to offer him this, and the openness and vulnerability Aramis displays in return would be enough to terrify him if he allowed himself to really think about it.

He wonders if he will ever be that vulnerable again. While a small part of him envies Aramis the way he melts into Athos’ touch, he’s not sure he can picture himself like that.

He can still tell that all is not quite as it should be, that beneath Aramis’ pleasure at his touch is an undercurrent of worry that Athos knows he’s caused; and while he hopes it will get better it only gets worse, building throughout the evening until they’re curled up together in bed and Aramis finally says, “I just don’t understand how one person can be so cruel to another.”

Athos shrugs the shoulder that’s underneath Aramis’ hand, very gently, so that he won’t take it as a rejection. “Truly, I don’t believe she meant to be. I believe she set out to build herself the life that she wanted, and when she realised that it wasn’t actually what she wanted at all, that she'd worked herself into a corner, she didn’t have the – tools, if you like, to deal with it kindly.”

He’s never realised before that what he knows of her motivations is more from what he didn’t see than what he did. The way she burst into his life as if from nowhere, with no family to speak of and no friends she seemed to have known for more than a few years, even though she was the most easily charismatic person he’d ever met; how tirelessly she worked to embed herself in his world, charming the snobbish and the difficult, one by one, even starting to win over his parents, yet never once tired or disillusioned by the constant effort, the snubs, the pointed questions about her own background.

Either she truly felt nothing or she never let him see it, at all times the image of the ideal wife; and it’s taken being with Aramis for Athos to realise this. Aramis, who shows Athos the vulnerability beneath his determined cheerfulness, who makes assumptions all over the place and shows a child’s frustration when he’s wrong, who can still be cut to the quick by the little cruelties of the world that Athos has always accepted.

Aramis, who hands Athos all the tools he needs to hurt him irreparably and trusts that he will never do so, who gives him his heart and expects that it will be nourished and not broken.

What separates Athos from Anne is that when things reached their point of crisis, Anne chose her self-preservation over his; and he can never imagine doing the same.

And if that means giving his own heart, well – he doesn’t suppose there was ever any question of him choosing otherwise.


	33. Chapter 33

Given all that's happened, Athos was fully expecting Aramis to be somewhat subdued in the days that follow; and so he barely thinks about it, too busy going through the motions himself and half-waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under his feet, to backslide yet again.

Work eases off until he’s only in his office a few hours a day, and Athos finds he has enough energy left over for a reread of _The Myth of Sisyphus_ , and decides he’s glad Aramis doesn’t speak French as it means he can leave it out on the coffee table without him staging an intervention.

He finally orders a new TV, and they spend the evenings watching whatever rubbish Aramis wants. Athos normally has little patience for television but finds he appreciates the mindless activity, and tries not to make his amusement too obvious whenever Aramis starts talking back to the programmes, which it turns out is quite frequently.

He helps Aramis make dinner and listens to him talk about his day, and tells him _for God’s sake go and enjoy yourself_ when Aramis says apologetically that his friends have invited him out; and it isn’t until Aramis stumbles through the front door at half past midnight and doesn’t even try and get a drunken grope in that Athos starts to realise Aramis is being _careful_ with him.

Once he’s noticed, he realises it’s been painfully obvious throughout. Watching TV for hours and not talking about anything meaningful; cuddling, but not doing anything sexual; not teasing each other, not pushing, not rubbing each other up the wrong way – it’s as if a spark has been put out.

While Athos never dared hope that once Aramis knew the truth about him it would bring them closer together – had never dared even think beyond that moment, in fact – he supposes that what he expected was that it would cause _something_ to happen, at least. A clear before and after, a turning point, an upheaval. Not this continued, half-hearted existence, where Aramis sees him as something damaged and handles him accordingly.

It’s not that Aramis is wrong, of course; but Athos is starting to realise that he needs him to be a little less nice, and a little less kind. To bring back the gentle pressure of his expectations that have been pulling Athos towards him the entire time, sometimes chafing but mostly slotting neatly together, slowly forming them into a whole.

This is, after all, the human condition: to strive ever onwards, even when we can't help feeling we've already given up. Where the world has no meaning, creating our own. Finding it in each other.

That evening Athos says don’t bother cooking, he fancies a Chinese; and an hour later he smiles carefully at Aramis across the cartons of takeaway and asks, “How are you feeling?”

Aramis blinks in surprise, and Athos wonders with a little self-loathing if he’s ever even asked Aramis about his feelings before. “I’m – good,” he replies haltingly. “I had a good day. No brats.”

Looking at the awkwardness and hesitation on Aramis’ face, Athos doesn’t even need to search the bond for the confidence to reply, “Okay, how about we try again, and this time you actually tell me what’s on your mind?”

Aramis manages to look conflicted for about half a second, before blurting out, “I’m – worried, alright? About you. About –” he doesn’t even have to finish the sentence for the words _what she did to you_ to ring in Athos’ ears. “I just – don’t know what to do.”

“About what happened, or what to do with me?” Athos replies calmly, surprising himself by how easily the words come now that he has no further secrets, and they can be upfront with each other about the problems they’re facing. “Because as to the former, it’s necessary to embrace one’s own powerlessness. I learned that early on. And as to the latter, I’m not sure I really know either.”

The way Aramis is staring at him is almost comical, as he puts his own chopsticks down on the table with a clatter that Athos doesn’t think was intentional.

“Well, I just don’t want to hurt you,” he says simply; and Athos finds himself softening in the face of those wide, dark eyes, and reaching for Aramis’ hand without conscious thought.

“I don’t believe you will. Not _really_ ,” Athos replies, squeezing Aramis’ fingers for emphasis. “You’re too compassionate. But I want you to stop handling me so carefully. To expect we’ll never annoy or upset each other in any way is just not realistic, and if we want to be able to be ourselves in this relationship, we’ll have to take that risk.”

It’s his turn to be surprised as happiness suddenly blooms through the bond; and when he frowns at Aramis, Aramis beams back at him. “You said ‘relationship’.”

“Yes, I did,” Athos concedes, stuffing more noodles in his mouth to hide his awkwardness.

It’s a factual description of the situation they’re in, that's all.

“Anyway, I’m glad,” Aramis says after a few moments of silence, still with the same bright smile. “If I’m honest, I had been missing the sex.” Then he must catch Athos’ sudden hesitation, because his expression turns immediately concerned again. “But there’s no rush, of course, I don’t want to ask you for anything you’re not ready for.”

“No, it’s not that,” Athos replies once he’s swallowed his noodles, the last thing he wants being for Aramis to fall back to that mindset. “It’s just – _was_ it sex, as such?”

“Of _course_ it was sex,” Aramis replies, apparently completely baffled, “what did you think – _wait._ Don’t tell me you’re one of those straight people who thinks only penetration counts as sex.”

Aramis’ expression is bordering on outrage, and Athos can’t help finding this whole misunderstanding somewhat amusing. It certainly makes a change to be talking about something that isn’t the clusterfuck that is his personal history.

“No, not at all. For one, there’s no way Porthos would have let me get away with holding an opinion like that for any length of time,” very carefully not mentioning that it was in fact Porthos who’d pointed it out to him in no uncertain terms many years past. “It’s more that I don’t think we’re quite – there yet.”

He isn’t quite sure what sort of response he expects; but Aramis nodding thoughtfully. “I think you’re right. I mean, even if all we ever do together is hand jobs and blow jobs – which would be fine, don’t get me wrong – it’s never quite been intimate, has it?” His voice turns quickly pensive. “I’ve not even really seen you naked. Well, I’ve _seen_ , but – I’ve not taken my time.”

It’s only now that Athos realises what serious territory he’s led them onto, but he presses on. “I suppose that’s what I mean, yes. Intimacy. Nakedness, and not just literally. Vulnerability, even.”

“Mmm,” Aramis almost-purrs, as though those ideas are suddenly very attractive to him indeed. “So, I think this is the part where I tell you what I’d like to do once dinner’s settled?”

“What’s that?” Athos asks, mouth suddenly dry – and not just from the MSG.

He’s left reeling a little from the sudden change of pace, though in hindsight he supposes he should have seen it coming.

“Hmm. Well. Let me think,” Aramis teases, deliberately drawing the moment out as Athos tugs unconsciously at the collar of his sweater, wondering when it got so hot in here. “I’ll lay you down on the bed, turn the lights on low. And then I’ll blindfold you, if you like?”

“Why that?” Athos manages, his heart pounding suddenly in his chest as it occurs to him he really doesn’t know what he’s got himself into.

“It’s just one of many options,” Aramis reassures him immediately, rubbing his sock-covered foot against Athos’ ankle beneath the table. “It makes things a bit less intense actually, in my experience. It’s much easier just to relax and concentrate on the sensation.”

“And what sensation is that?” Athos finds himself asking.

He’s strangely wary of the answer, but he can’t help wanting to know.

“Oh, I’m just going to touch you,” Aramis replies airily. “I’m going to take my time, is all. Undress you, and explore properly.”

Athos’ jeans are feeling uncomfortably tight, his unmistakeable arousal edged with a fear he recognises all too well; but he makes himself take a few deep breaths and reminds himself sternly that this is Aramis, it’s not going to be the same at all.

He stiffens a little when Aramis gets up from his chair; but Aramis just manoeuvres himself around the corner of the table and drapes himself over Athos’ lap, Athos shuffling his chair back at the last minute so there’s actually room for him.

“Alright?” Aramis asks gently, arm curling around Athos’ shoulder and pressing warm fingers against the bare skin of his neck, calming him.

“Alright,” Athos replies, only a little stiltedly. “It’s not the sex. Not as such.”

“I know,” Aramis says, spearing a piece of crispy beef with one of his chopsticks. “Tell me if I’m pushing too hard.”

“You’re not. I – want you to push a little, actually.”

The last thing he wants is to go back to the uneasy truce of the past week, Aramis being so _careful_ with him, slowly sapping his own spirit all the while.

“Okay,” Aramis says simply, twisting a little to bring the beef on his chopstick to Athos’ lips.

Athos gives him a look. “What are you doing?”

“I’m feeding you,” Aramis replies, as if it should be obvious.

“I can feed myself, you know,” Athos points out, to try and hide his confusion.

“Yes, you can. You can also live by yourself, have fun by yourself and get yourself off.” Aramis raises his eyebrows, thoroughly unimpressed. “And yet here we are.”

Athos really isn’t sure he follows the logic – if there even is any – but he decides it’s not worth arguing, and opens his mouth; and when Aramis shows no signs of wanting to move from his lap he lets him stay there, steadying him with one arm around his waist as they both finish eating from Athos’ plate.

Afterwards they move back to the sofa with fresh bottles of Tsinghua, Athos cuddling up to Aramis for a change; and Aramis is even more tactile than usual, he decides, his fingers mapping all the parts of Athos’ upper body he can reach beneath his T-shirt, broad strokes of his hands that only occasionally verge on the ticklish. The feeling is relaxing rather than arousing, and he’s about thinking he could just fall asleep like this when Aramis twists round and ducks his head to kiss him, slow and lazy, with one hand holding his jaw in place, for what feels like forever.

“Come into the bedroom with me?” Aramis asks eventually; and though it makes Athos’ heart beat a little harder, he pushes the feeling down and away.

“Okay,” he agrees, and lets Aramis lead him through by the hand.

It’s noticeably warmer in the bedroom than the rest of the house, and while Athos is left wondering when exactly Aramis cranked the heating up without him noticing, Aramis turns the bedside light on low before pushing Athos gently by the shoulders until he’s sitting down on the edge of the mattress, hands flexed flat against the bedsheets – before Aramis falls to his knees before him.

“Get up,” Athos says automatically, already tugging a little at his upper arms – but Aramis stays firmly put.

“You don’t like me kneeling in front of you,” Aramis says thoughtfully, “why is that?”

“Because I used to kneel in front of Anne,” Athos forces himself to say into the resounding silence, biting the inside of his lip as an echo of that familiar self-loathing washes over him, forcing himself not to remember how he used to hug her calves and press his face to them as if being dramatic would convince her of his devotion to her, forcing himself to stay focused.

He hopes to God Aramis doesn’t ask. He’s not sure he could bring himself to admit to being quite that pathetic.

“Hmm,” Aramis just says, reaching for Athos’ hand where it’s tensed flat against the duvet, refusing to grip. “What about if I just put my head in your lap, like this?”

Aramis lets his head fall against Athos’ knees, and Athos finds himself reaching out, unable to help pulling Aramis’ unruly hair back from his face, surprising himself as his unhappiness recedes.

He’d thought this would remind him, inescapably, even take him back there – but it’s not him on his knees at all, it’s Aramis, and besides, the atmosphere is completely different. If he had to neatly sum up the way he used to be with Anne, he’d call it _desperation_ ; this, by contrast, is more restful than anything else.

“This is okay,” he says, voice hoarse.

“I’m glad.” He can just see the curve of Aramis’ smile in profile, his cheek pressed to the denim of Athos’ jeans. “I’d hate to think I couldn’t suck your cock like this.” He pauses, just long enough for Athos’ cheeks to heat as he imagines exactly that, bent over to watch his cock sliding in and out of Aramis’ pretty lips, his cheeks hollowed, hot wet suction, before his smile widens as he murmurs, “Not today, though.”

“No,” Athos agrees. “Today the blindfold.”

He’d meant to sound ironic, but Aramis’ voice is serious as he sits up, propping his folded arms on Athos’ knees to look at him intently. “Do you want that?”

This is what he wanted, isn't it? A bit more pressure, a bit more risk, hopefully with the corresponding reward.

“I want to try it,” he says, taking the plunge.

Aramis produces a thick length of black satin from one of his boxes, and ties it around Athos’ eyes, plunging him into thick darkness before sitting on his lap again to kiss him, deep and full.

After that, it seems to go on for hours: fabric dragging against his skin as he’s undressed, the hard heat of Aramis a firm pressure against his arse as they lie down together, one arm slung across his chest as he presses kisses to the nape of Athos’ neck, along his spine, to his hip, to everywhere except where Athos most wants his mouth, though he refuses to beg, even to cry out.

Aramis was right, he thinks, as questing fingers press against the skin behind his balls, surprising him with how good it feels; in the dark he has lost something of himself, or rather, set something free. Perhaps he is the one who’s worked himself free at least a little, in this strange new clarity of sensation, almost without context, and only Aramis’ constant contact against his skin, never letting go even when Athos feels him moving about the bed, keeping him tethered.

It’s surprisingly peaceful, for all it’s arousing; and he isn’t surprised when the touch that finally reaches his cock is too warm and wet to be a hand, delicate kisses pressed along his shaft, the swipe of a tongue over the tip that has him groaning and bucking, seeking further contact, the nuzzle of a soft cheek and the first bloom of stubble, stopping just before it becomes unpleasant.

He reaches down and pushes his hands into Aramis’ hair, petting appreciatively, though never once trying to take control; and when he’s swallowed down what feels like hours later his orgasm is almost serene somehow, as though he’s floating even within his own body, Aramis leading him unfailingly through the dark.

He has never, _ever_ felt like this. Calm, that is, and strong, when he’d expected to feel as weak as he did back then.

When Aramis tries to take the blindfold off, Athos buries himself even deeper into his arms and murmurs, _just a little while longer._


	34. Chapter 34

It’s like a dam’s broken. The next day’s a weekend and a day off for Aramis, and they barely get out of bed all day, just opening the curtains to let in the winter sunlight before looking their fill of each other’s bodies, Aramis bracing himself above Athos as they thrust into the slick circles of each other’s fists; and Athos watches Aramis’ face as he comes and for the first time, isn’t scared of what Aramis might see in his.

They break for lunch, when Aramis insists on them both getting properly dressed, and Athos grumbles a little but takes it all back when he finds out it’s so that Aramis can kneel between his legs right there at the kitchen table, undoing Athos’ jeans and sucking his cock, as promised.

After that they go back to bed and undress all over again, Athos fingering the band of lace blooming along Aramis’ hips, tracing the trim of his knickers with first his fingers and then his tongue, until Aramis tells him at last, in a voice rough with desire and hesitation, what exactly it is that he’d like.

It’s okay if Athos doesn’t want to, he adds hastily, when Athos doesn’t immediately reply; he can do it himself and Athos can watch, he just wants to share it – and though it’s tempting just to do just that, let Aramis open himself up, putting on the kind of show that Athos can half-picture in the swirling white heat of his mind, that’s something for later.

They’ve got time, after all.

“No, I’d like to try,” he says, running his hand over the satin covering Aramis’ arse to illustrate his point.

Aramis gives him a heartfelt kiss and a nitrile glove, and the instructions to go slowly, and use lots of lube; and while Athos half-wants to hold him in his arms and keep him there, he has Aramis lie back with a pillow under his hips and kneels between his spread legs so he can do this properly, hooking a thumb through the gusset of his knickers and pulling them to one side so that he can run an experimental finger over Aramis’ hole with the other.

While Athos was aware in the abstract that Aramis must like this, he hadn’t really thought it through, and he certainly wasn’t prepared for the way Aramis moans immediately under his touch, wriggling against Athos’ questing finger and trying to push down on it, already wanting more; or for the way Aramis doesn’t moan again but instead sighs out in wordless bliss a few minutes later, as Athos carefully pushes the first finger inside him.

Aramis loves nothing else they’ve done quite the way he loves this, Athos can tell, as Aramis reaches down to caress Athos’ face, his hair, his shoulders as he tells him in a voice thick with arousal how to crook his fingers just so; and Athos has three fingers inside him and is moving at the same steady pace when Aramis’ keening whines turn to begging. Athos ignores him at first, counting to a hundred in his head before he relents and pulls Aramis’ knickers down to stroke his cock, relaxing the bond at just the right moment for Aramis to come with what’s almost a shout, cock jerking and spilling over his belly as his muscles clench around Athos’ fingers; and though Athos can’t come again just yet he feels the aftershocks of it rocking through his body all the same, clenching his muscles and stealing his breath.

Sex still feels a lot like falling, Athos thinks much later, as they lie curled up together under the duvet, bodies finally sated; but with Aramis, at least he isn’t falling alone.

Athos is only now starting to realise how black and white things have always been in his mind. He used to look at Aramis and then at himself, and thought that between Aramis’ blithe optimism and his own expectations of despair and discord there would be no way through; but if he could only say he’s learned one thing, it’s just how undramatic even his most feared moments have been.

They’ve hurt, of course, almost beyond bearing; but afterwards the world has not ended, he has not spiralled down into despair. Aramis has not turned from him. They have cried a little, perhaps, and then there has always been dinner to finish, work to do, night and then a new dawn following. Life has gone on, in short, and the truth has always remained firmly somewhere in the middle. For all Aramis’ light and his darkness, together they just are.

Things do not just fall into place, they have to be worked at, but nor do they just fall apart. They _can_ be worked at, step by step, piece by piece, and the green shoots growing.

Athos bears that in mind a week later, when he wakes alone to a dream of Anne walking away from him down a gravel path, the soles of her feet bleeding bright scarlet, high heels slung over one shoulder and an enigmatic smile on her face as she turns to look back at him; and though he spends the day in bed curled in on himself and trying not to shake he knows, logically, that this is simply one swing of the pendulum, that Aramis will be home soon to hold him and make him eat something and maybe tell him something mildly amusing that happened at work to take his mind off things. And that in time, the world will right itself once more.

When Aramis does get home, the last thing Athos is expecting is for Aramis to get under the duvet with him and draw him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead before looking into his eyes and saying, “I love you.”

It’s unexpected enough to almost shock Athos out of his depression entirely; and the lucid part of his mind, the only part that isn’t gaping at Aramis in complete bafflement, only thinks _no you don’t_ for a brief moment before he identifies it as an old, destructive reflex, and realises that on the balance of available evidence, Aramis probably does.

“I’ve been saving it,” Aramis continues, and Athos can feel the edge of his nervousness coming through the bond. “I wanted to wait until I felt like we really knew each other. I thought that maybe… you’d be ready to hear it then.”

To be told he’s loved when he feels at his most unlovable is too much; and Athos wordlessly buries his face in Aramis’ chest, dimly aware that he’s shaking again, hoping he can convey through the clutching of his fingers and the sudden tears in his eyes what this means to him.

“You okay?” Aramis asks, cradling Athos’ head against him; and when Athos nods silently beneath his hand, he kisses the top of Athos’ head and says, “Please – don’t say it back, not right now. I want you to be ready, and choose your own moment, not say it just because I said it to you.”

“Okay,” Athos manages to reply through the sudden ache in his throat.

When he says it – if he says it – he wants to feel more secure, and not in Aramis’ affections but in his own skin. He wants to be a little less grateful for every touch and every kindness, to feel as if there’s nothing he needs from Aramis at all, and thus that everything they have together is a choice.

He’s already chosen to let Aramis in, chosen to let himself be dependent, but really that’s only half the battle; and rather than an end in itself, it’s a beginning.

For now, they just live with each other. They work and they come home again and have sex and fall asleep and wake up next to each other. They go to Constance and d’Artagnan’s for dinner, where Porthos tells them all about a woman he’s met (“Her name’s Alice. She wants to travel”), and Athos manages to let go of his last stubborn bit of guilt at being a boyfriend-stealer, however unwittingly. They agree to go to Sofía and David’s for Aramis’ family Christmas, and Athos very carefully does not freak out at the idea of meeting all the people Aramis loves so much, and lets Aramis reassure him that they’ll all love him too when they see how happy he’s making him.

They argue about Christmas shopping, and Athos stands his ground and says that Aramis can do whatever he wants, but _he_ is getting everything online and he’s not budging on that. Aramis sulks for half an hour before calling his friend Priya to drag round town instead; and when he comes back that evening flush-cheeked and happy and with a sprig of mistletoe tucked into his belt buckle beneath his coat, Athos rolls his eyes and asks him how old he is exactly, but blows him later that evening anyway.

Aramis goes on another night out with his old group of friends, and comes back at one in the morning to have a drunken cry on Athos’ shoulder and complain that it’s just not the _same_ , he loves the music and the dancing but everyone’s just there to pull and he feels so awkward, and when Athos asks if he could do something a little less sexually-oriented with the same people Aramis admits grudgingly that while they used to have a lot of fun together, it’s not even that he _likes_ them that much when everybody's sober.

Athos and Aramis go for an evening out together with Aramis’ other circle of friends, the ones he _does_ like; and while it’s not exactly a disaster Athos can’t help hating it a little bit, they’re just not his kind of people and he has nothing much to say to them, the music’s too loud and they’re paying for shitty overpriced drinks and something about the bar they’re in just makes him feel anxious; and he sticks it out until they start doing shots and then says he’s got a killer of a headache, no, it was lovely to meet you all, and they catch the night bus home and sit in awkward silence for a few minutes with Athos feeling like the worst, most difficult kind of person in the world until Aramis cracks and says, “Look, it’s okay if you don’t like them. It really is.”

“I don’t _dislike_ them,” Athos counters, and then realising how terrible that sounds on its own, adds, “but I couldn’t help feeling that all we have in common is you. And – I’m not exactly comfortable with talking about my relationship in detail.”

“It really is okay,” Aramis reassures, leaning his head against Athos’ shoulder and taking his hand. “I appreciate that you tried. They can just be my friends, and we’ve got some friends that are both of ours. All I need now is some new people to take me dancing.”

 _I’ll take you dancing,_ Athos immediately wants to say, and then mentally kicks himself for wanting to make promises he’s sure he can’t keep.

But the idea niggles at him, and two days later when Aramis is back at work he finds himself Googling for LGBT-friendly partner dance (because there’s no way in hell he’s going clubbing, he has his limits after all), then before he can lose his nerve, emailing Aramis the URL of the one that looks most suitable, with the words, ‘ _What do you think?_ ’

Aramis doesn’t reply straight away. Instead, he comes home and basically tackles Athos to the sofa, showering him with kisses and pausing only to ask, breathless with excitement, “Are you sure?”

“I hope ballroom’s not too sedate for you,” Athos replies, instead of pointing out that he very rarely does things he’s not completely sure about. “It was the only thing I've got any experience of.”

Aramis blinks in surprise. “You danced?”

“Only at school,” Athos replies. “It was an after-school activity with the local girls’ school. As I’m sure you can imagine, it was rather popular.”

Aramis cracks up laughing, until he's clutching his stomach and struggling for breath. “Oh God, Athos, I think that is the most ludicrously posh thing I’ve ever heard you say. Ballroom dancing with the girls’ school. Jesus Christ.”

“I wouldn’t knock it if I were you,” Athos objects mildly. “From where I’m standing, it seems to have worked out in your favour.”

“And as I’m lying pretty much on top of you, I’d definitely have to agree.” Aramis leans in to capture Athos’ lips in a long, deep kiss. “Thank you, though. Really. So much.”

Athos can’t help grinning, between the sheer force of Aramis’ joy and his own joy in doing something just to make Aramis happy, in giving for once rather than always taking; and he’s just opening his mouth to say _I love you_ when Aramis gives him a loud smacking kiss on the nose and says, “Oh, before I forget, I have to show you this thing Porthos sent me earlier. I laughed so hard I thought I was going to piss myself.”

 _Ruin the bloody moment, why don’t you_ , Athos thinks as Aramis manoeuvres himself off the sofa to grab his laptop, though there’s no real irritation in it. There will be another moment to tell Aramis how he feels, and many more after that.

While he knows that he’s still a long way from perfect, Athos has learned to believe that they have time – and to trust that eventually, he’ll get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Thank you so much to all my readers for your comments, kudos, and other support. It truly means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Works inspired by this one:
> 
> [One in Ten Thousand playlist](https://8tracks.com/luccadevereux/one-in-ten-thousand) by [Lucca_Devereux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucca_Devereux)


End file.
